The Mortal Akatosh
by Kako Koritsi
Summary: "Close shut the jaws of Oblivion," the Emperor said, and he never got a chance to decline, the sword in his chest taking the king's life. So he did, the blood of the Deadlands tainting his life's journey, memories of Uriel's soft and sweet smile fresh in his mind. And through it all, the ruby amulet in his hands never ceased to shine, glowing with the power of a man's dying wish.
1. Prologue

_I was born eighty-seven years ago._

Two armored men ran down the tight corridor, guarding their king. A third tagged behind, her sword glimmering too brightly, but not as bright as the Emperor's eyes.

_For sixty-five years I've ruled as Tamriel's Emperor. _

They were getting closer, slowly and surely, but not fast enough. Uriel Septim's fingers held on tightly to a sleek necklace strung against his silky robes, his feet straining to keep up with his guards ahead. A few times, he almost felt as if his heart pounded against his ribcage so ferociously that the others could feel it, too.

_I have seen the Gates of Oblivion, in which no waking eye can see; behold, in Darkness, a Doom sweeps the land. _

The stone halls almost appeared to be twisting maniacally, stretching on eternally. "Come on, sire!" His Blade begged, but grief had struck against the words. All his sons, his heirs, his responsibility... dead.

_This is the twenty-seventh of Last Seed. _

It wasn't supposed to hurt this much, surely? Uriel had done things he took pride in, ruling Tamriel with a kind heart but iron fist, yet he had also done things he was ashamed of. Repeatedly. No- this was not supposed to sting his soul as much as it did now.

_The year of Akatosh, four hundred thirty-three_.

Maybe he was torn apart like so because of what he knew was to come. What would transpire. What those Gates would hold, would symbolize, would bring.

_These are the closing days of the third era. These are the closing days of my life._


	2. Chapter One

When he woke up, it was with a pounding headache, his missing memories aching like a lost reality.

He sat up on the hard bed, rubbing at his eyes and temples. He appeared to be in the Imperial Prison, though he couldn't quite figure out why he was there. Or, more urgently, who he was.

It was a cell made from cold stone, the floor dried, hard-packed dirt. A single window hung high above him, letting the smallest stream of sunlight in the room. The walls were stacked bricks, the air tasting sour in his mouth.

A voice grabbed his attention, filled with cold tones and faked interest. "Hm," it started, considering. He went over to the bars of his cell, revealing the crooked teeth and red eyes of a Dunmer staring back at him. "Pale skin, snotty expression. You're a Breton!"

He held up his hands to his face dubiously. He was?

The male continued, gently clacking his grown-out fingernails against the metal bars. "Masters of magicka, right?" He offered a shrug, not liking where this was going, but the Dark Elf paid him no mind. "Hmph," he snorted. "Nothing but a bunch of stuck-up snobs with cheap parlor tricks if you ask me."

He tilted his head, confused. "Um, listen-"

The male immediately cut him off, shooting a vicious glare to his cell. "No, you listen!" He rose his eyebrows, but contented. "Let's see you try your magicka in here, hm? Go ahead, make your bars disappear." The Dunmer paused, insistent clacking stopping at the motion of his fingers. "No? What's the matter, little Breton?"

He felt his face flush. "There's really no need-"

The Dark Elf's voice rose over his weak defense. "Not so powerful now, are you?" The prisoner cackled and wheezed, the sound supposed to be laughing. He winced, allowing the other to continue with his mad rant. "You're not getting out of here 'till they throw your body into the lake."

He felt his eyes widen at that. The Dunmer took a look at him and started laughing louder. "Oh, that's right! You're going to die in here, Breton. You're going to die!" He shook his head rapidly as the Dunmer gloated at him from afar.

Finally, he huffed, gathering up his voice."I don't know who you are, but if all you're going to do is ramble on like a madman, could you at least do it a little quieter?" He made to turn on his heel and sulk back to the lumpy bed when a sudden group of voices echoed through the halls.

He paused, trying to hear what they were saying, when the Dark Elf choose to speak again. "Hey, you here that?" His features were split into a toothy grin. "The guards are coming... for you!" The male went deeper into his cell, bringing his cruel laughter past his line of sight.

He sighed with relief, but his hands twitched nervously on their own accord. What if he was right? The footsteps seemed to be growing louder.

Looking for a place to hide, he caught snippets of the conversation. An elderly voice rose above the others.

"They're dead, aren't they?" It asked, crestfallen tone carrying over the halls. He couldn't hear much past that, only able to conclude that there were no suitable hiding places in his confinement. He could only gaze miserably as the group appeared at his cell, and stopped there.

"My job is to get you to safety," one woman was finishing as they paused outside his bars. He looked them over, noting the strange armor and unorthodox blades. If one thing was for sure, it was that these people weren't Imperial soldiers- the thought made his heart beat with a bit more happiness.

The feeling didn't stay as a particularly tough looking guard caught sight of him. Dark eyes observed him under a bronze helmet. "What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off-limits." It was the woman, apparently in charge.

He went completely still in his position beside the prison bed. Another guard, obviously male, spoke up. "Usual mix-up with the watch, I-" she dismissed him.

"Nevermind." She addressed the Breton, hands reaching out to unlock the gate. "Stand back, prisoner. We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in our way." His eyes widened even more at that, slowly backing up.

"Over by the window," the male supplied, same harsh tones. "Stay out of the way and you won't get hurt." He nodded, scrambling to the back. After a few more warnings, the gate lock clicked, door opening.

The three marched forward at the captain's command, the male still warning him to stay where he was. Before they got far, however, a fourth member made himself known.

"You," it said, and he recognized the elderly voice from before. "I've seen you." He moved away from his guards' shelter, opting to approach the prisoner.

The man was as old as his weary voice, features defined with wrinkles, shining silver hair cascading down his shoulders. He wore a regal purple and red robe, the collar white fur and gold encrusted cloth. A glimmering ruby amulet hung on his neck, displayed proudly on his chest.

His eyes twinkled as he stared at the Breton, speaking again. "You are the one from my dreams," he said, taking a deep breath as if each word drained him of a little more strength. His whole demeanor was melancholy in total, shoulders drooping slightly. "Then the stars were right. Gods give me strength."

The prisoner spoke, considering. "What's going on?"

The female guard fidgeted behind them, but said nothing as the other man replied. "Assassins attacked my sons, and I'm next. My Blades are leading me out of the city along a secret escape route. By chance, the entrance to that escape route leads through your cell."

Something in his bright blue irises said it wasn't by mere fate. "Why am I in jail?" He questioned. He wanted to ask who he was, but the genuine smile that graced the man's chapped lips stopped any further words.

"Perhaps the Gods have placed you here so that we may meet," he proposed. "As for what you have done, it does not matter. That is not what you will be remembered for."

What exactly _would_ he be remembered for? His next question came out cautiously. "Who are you?"

"I am your emperor, Uriel Septim. By the grace of the Gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler. You are a citizen of Tamriel, and you, too, shall serve her in your own way." The prisoner looked at the man in shock, feeling like he should kneel, but the king only smiled softly at him.

"What," he swallowed, looking at Uriel. "What should I do?"

The smile faded slightly, simply a ghost on his lips. "You will find your own path. Take care; there will be blood and death before the end."

Before he could reply, the female spoke up behind them, standing near the right wall. "Please, sire, we must keep moving." It was almost a plea, and the emperor nodded.

He couldn't quite see what she did, but the bricks slid open to reveal a hidden passage. He gaped as Uriel stepped in, biding him another look before descending into the tunnel. The last Blade, a male that had remained silent so far, stayed back with the captain as the other guard followed their ruler.

"Better not close this one." At the male's dubious look, she explained. "There's no way to open it from the other side." She then stepped through, leaving the last guard to deal with him.

After a hard look, he finally gave a little shrug, metal armor clinking slightly. "Looks like it's your lucky day," he said, smooth voice and dark skin revealing that he was a Redguard. Then, as if not rude enough, he added, "Just stay out of our way."

The Breton nodded, letting him go first. After a deep breath, his feet picked up and he followed after the four.

* * *

The dirt eventually gave out to bricks, leading down a path of stairs. The air was decisively cooler, making him shiver as he followed the other four. The guard in front of him occasionally warned him to stay back a few times, but he was slightly kinder than the others with the orders, so the prisoner didn't mind too much. He was observing the new architecture, noting the ancient feel of the area when the captain yelled.

"Close up left!" She said, the sound of the three drawing their swords filling the large room. "Protect the emperor!"

Uriel went to his side as robed figures spilled into the area, conjuring armor and weapons as they ran to the three head on. The king murmured to himself quietly. "Worse is yet to come," he whispered, seemingly accepting of a horrid fate. The Breton looked at his king with a worried expression, and, upon coming out of the slight reverie, met the glance with a reassuring smile.

"Do not worry," he spoke, reverently. "My Blades are strong, even in small numbers. You will be safe from harm with them." He nodded, shooting back his own small grin.

Suddenly, one of the males gave a warning exclamation. "The captain's down!" He yelled, causing the prisoner to look over. Sure enough, she had been struck from one of the robed assassins, body sprawled over the steps. The Redguard Blade hurried over to dispatch the enemy, the two continuing on with the remaining until they lay dead on the floor. They spoke to each other in hushed tones for a while, too quiet to make out.

Finally, the Redguard mad his way over, panting slightly as he sheathed his sword. "Are you alright?"

Uriel's blue eyes were grave. "Captain Renault?"

He shook his head. "She's dead. I'm sorry, sire, but we have to keep moving."

"I'll take point. Let's move," the other called, getting up from his kneeling position beside Renault's body. He led the four down more stairs, the prisoner being careful to step around any corpses. The group paused at a gate, where the now leading male guard held out his hand.

He addressed the Breton. "Stay here, prisoner. Don't try to follow us." Ignoring his quizzical look, he went to unlock the gate.

Uriel went over to him, whispering to his ear. "Here you must find your own path. But we will cross paths before the end, I am sure of it." He only nodded, slight panic squirming his his chest as the three left him through the gate, locking it behind him.

He sighed a long sigh, alone with only dead bodies to keep him company. Part of him thought of returning to the cell, but the idea was quickly dismissed at the reminder of Uriel's words. _We will cross paths before the end, I am sure of it._

The prisoner put his back to the cold stone wall and slid down slowly, landing hard on his backside. Hands absent-mindedly fiddled with his sack cloth pants, eyes searching for an escape route.

He was contemplating taking a nap when the opposite wall began shaking. The Breton stood up with a jolt as the bricks burst forth, rats spilling out with glee. The came towards him immediately, pink noses quivering, and he had to fight the urge to run away screaming.

He quickly grabbed Renault's blade, fighting down the guilt of taking from the dead- but this had to qualify as an emergency, right? He held it up to himself in a protective position, one of the vermin throwing itself at the block and crumbling. He shuddered from a mix of cold and disgust as he cut through another rat, relief washing over as the rest got the message and scampered away.

"Great," he muttered, staring at the retrieved blade. Upon closer inspection it appeared to be a katana, polished bronze stained with red. He felt a little guilty at that, hurriedly wiping the rat blood on his dirt-encrusted pants. It smeared slightly, but he managed to get most of the substance off.

Eyeing the newly-made tunnel, he hurriedly grabbed some potions from the fallen assassins, assuring himself that it wasn't dishonorable if they had died doing evil deeds. He downed a few of the tiny pink bottles, finding any tiredness slip away and be replaced by energy. The last one had a different effect, warming up his inside and tugging at his gut. It was strange, but he shoved the thought to the back of his mind and regarded the passage.

The Breton was indeed small, easily slipping through the tiny passage. It was partly due to his natural physique, but there was a certain sick skinniness to himself that he would have to fix later. When he was through, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the change of lighting, trying to get a feel for the tunnel.

It was extremely dark, musty smell clinging to the underground walls. Decaying columns limply held the ceiling above his head, a broken well shoved in the corner. He didn't quite know how that got there but he walked over to it, not really knowing why.

Halfway through he stopped, noticing a skeleton on the opposite side. Changing directions, the Breton went over to where it was rotting. He picked up a rusty iron dagger, the feel of it light in his shaking hands. He also took notice of a bag in the skeleton's ribs, glowing lightly with magicka.

His fingers fished it out of the sea of decayed bones, opening it up and peeking an eye through. Finding only darkness, he shoved the dagger inside, getting an idea. On a whim, he took a nearby shield and put that in as well, gaping when the entrance expanded appropriately. The shield disappeared shortly after, the bag going back to its original shape.

He did the same with a nearby bow and some arrows, but not before attempting to shoot the bucket hanging over the old well. After some misplaced tries he gave up, standing. The prisoner didn't really know how he would be getting any of the items back, but he ditched the thought and went over to the far door.

A fairly fresher body lay by the wooden frame, almost as if it were a warning, mangled and tinged bluer than a Dunmer. He hesitantly poked at it, finally gathering enough courage to look for a sort of key. He found it soon enough with minimal shuffling. Giving the goblin one last glance, he unlocked the door, toting the enchanted bag and katana along.

* * *

"I think that was all of them," he told the other two, sliding his katana back in it's sheath. "Let me take a look around." The prisoner watched, crouched behind a broken pillar, as the Blade started examining the room.

Uriel Septim stood next to his other guard, shoulders set and eyes searching. "Have you seen the prisoner?" He finally asked the Blade, voice teetering on defeat.

The Redguard was immediately on high alert, also searching, but not with quite the same intent. "Do you think he followed us?" He replied nervously. "How could he?"

"Oh, I know he did," the king confirmed, and the Breton smiled to himself silently. The other guard came back, apparently finding the area clear.

"Let's continue, sire," he spoke, waving a hand over his shoulder. Uriel only shook his head.

"Not yet," he answered. "Let me rest for a moment." The male contented, if not a bit reluctantly.

The Breton held his breath, waiting for them to continue on. The other Blades seemed to share his anxiety, as it wasn't long before he urged the emperor again. "Your Majesty, we need to keep moving."

Uriel denied again. "Let me rest a moment longer." The prisoner realized he was waiting for him to show.

With a deep breath, grip tightening under around the hilt of the taken katana, he jumped down from the ledge. Only wincing slightly at the contact with bare feet, he steadied himself. The guards yelped, taking out their swords.

"Dammit, it's that prisoner again!" The male yelled, briskly walking over. "Kill him, he must be working with assassins!"

The look in their eyes was slightly vicious and wholly deterring, and he backed up against the wall. The katana suddenly felt heavy in his hands as they advanced.

A sudden shout made the Blades pause, the tone frustrated and bordering on rage. "No! Stop it!"

They obeyed feet away from him. In a much calmer tone, Uriel continued. "He is not one of them. He can help us. He must help us."

"As you wish, sire," the Redguard replied, sheathing his sword without a second thought. The other male simply opted to stay where he was, katana ready, features pulled in a scowl.

"Come closer," Uriel requested, and it _was_ a request, made with kind eyes and a soft smile. "I'd prefer not to have to shout." The prisoner's eyes darted towards his guards, still slightly quivering. The Redguard noticed this, backing up generously, and the other male put down his blade.

Uriel noticed, too. "Do not be afraid," he assured. "My guardians will not harm you." The Breton sent a tiny nod his way, hurrying to the emperor's side.

Once he was there, the king continued in a slighter tone. "They cannot understand why I trust you," he told the Breton. "They've not seen what I've seen. How can I explain? Listen," he ordered, and the prisoner did. "You know the Nine? How They guide our fates with an invisible hand?"

The words seemed to poke something in the back of his mind, but all he could offer was a shrug. Yes, he knew what the Nine were, but not his own personal opinions on Them. Uriel didn't seem discouraged. "I've served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens. The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars well, and I wonder... which sign marked your birth?"

He have another hopeless shrug. "To be honest, I don't know." Uriel nodded, eyes slightly glazed over, thinking deeply.

"The signs I read show the end of my path," he continued. "My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come." He breathed in deeply. "My dreams grant me no opinions of success, you must understand. Their compass ventures not beyond the doors of death. But in your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied."

He furrowed his eyebrows, not getting a lick of sense out of the words. He changed the direction of the conversation. "Where are we going?"

"I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, and then we must part."

The first sentence rang out in his mind, reverberating through his thoughts. "You..." The emperor waited. "You're going to die?" The little upturn of the corners of his mouth told it all. "But," he faltered. "But aren't you afraid to die?"

The ripe smile turned into something sweeter on his ruler's face, something almost thankful. "No trophies of my triumphs precede me. But I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this I am blessed to see the hour of my death... To face my apportioned fate, then fall."

He stared at Uriel, wonder in his eyes. "You're pretty amazing," he blurted, face growing hot. "Um, sorry," he murmured, but Uriel only laughed.

"Don't be," he told the Breton. One of his Blades cleared his throat.

"Sire, we need to go now," he warned. The king nodded, quickly addressing the prisoner.

"Come with us. Your destiny is bound up with mine, and the fate of Tamriel itself." At his consenting nod, the emperor continued through the hallway after his Blade.

The other one, the Redguard, went over to him. "Here, carry this torch and stick close." He held out the wedge of wood, lighting it with a flick of his fingers and handing it over.

"What's your name?" He wondered as they went through.

"Baurus," he answered, alert. "The other Blade is Glenroy." He was about to ask more, but Baurus continued. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you," he started, looking straight into his eyes. The Breton dimly noted his irises were brown.

"You were only doing your job," he told him. "Besides, I'm just a prisoner rotting in jail. I could be evil and all." To be honest, he didn't know what his morality standing was, but he didn't _feel_ evil. Was that enough?

"I doubt it," Baurus told him, looking forward. "And in any case, I apologize." He was about to reply when Glenroy called at them to stop.

"Hold up," he ordered. It was the largest room they had been in by far, a huge column separating two large stairways and holding up the ceiling looming above. It was also the perfect position for an ambush, blind spots making up most of the space. "I don't like the look of this. Let me take a look."

The Blade descended the steps on the left, going down beyond the prisoner's line of sight in his position at the back. The uneasy feeling in the Breton's gut didn't disappear until he came back. "Looks clear," he confirmed, waving them over. "Come on. We're almost through to the sewers."

They followed, being lead to another gate. Glenroy tried it, giving out a curse shortly after. "Dammit! The gate is barred from the other side!" The room became darker all of a sudden, and he found himself looking into the shadows. "A trap!"

Baurus mentioned the side passage they passed. The other male nodded. "Worth a try. Let's go!" His pace became quicker as they made their way to the passage. It was small, the group barely fitting in together, and he found himself pushed to the front beside the emperor with a knowing look from Baurus.

One thing became apparent as they entered; it was a dead end. The Redguard said as much to his comrade. "What's your call, sir?"

The other looked on the verge of panic. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't see any good options here."

"Hey," he spoke up, loosing some steam when everyone stared simultaneously. "Thinking thoroughly and being honest is better than leading people blindly through battle, wouldn't you say?"

Glenroy blinked, then smiled at him appreciatively. Just as he was warming up to the guard, the expression switched to terror. "They're behind us!"

Sure enough, he could hear the shimmering sound of conjured armor and flashes of magicka. "Stay here, sire," Glenroy warned, running down the corridor to face the battle. Baurus shot a worried look at him, telling him to protect the emperor with his life before following.

They stayed alone in the room, the Breton tense and holding his katana at the ready for a while. He eventually tuned to the king, who hadn't said a word since. "It's going to be fine," he assured, sparing a glance to the older man.

He received the warmest eyes in return. "Yes, it will, my friend. But I'm afraid I can go no further." He was given a panicked look, but continued all the same. "You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants." He opened his mouth to speak, but was waved off. "He must not have the Amulet of Kings!"

The emperor tore his glimmering necklace off his throat, taking one of the prisoner's grubby hands into his own pure ones. He tried to protest, but trailed off weakly as the ruby jewel was placed in his palm.

Uriel closed his fingers around the necklace, looking dead straight into his eyes, never letting go. The sounds of battle still echoed through the halls. "Take the amulet," he said, but the Breton didn't see much choice. "Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son." The prisoner didn't dare question, rapt attention focused on the regal man in front of him. "Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

He let his gaze fall to their joined hands, the jewel of the amulet glimmering though the cracks of his fingers, golden chain hanging limply. His voice was too small, too weak. "You're amulet? Then this- this is goodbye?"

A last smile. "This is where my journey ends, yes. For you, though, the road is long and dangerous."

He had just met this man, but he felt himself tearing up. This was the first person that had showed him kindness, the savior from his imprisonment. "With all of my heart... farewell."

A slight reassuring squeeze through his fingers. "Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength."

He swallowed. "I won't forget you." The emperor nodded.

"I know you won't. Remember me, and remember my words. This burden is now yours alone. You hold our future in your hands."

He wanted to say that he didn't want it. He didn't know his name, much less what to do with the fate of the world. Despite his best wishes, he found himself nodding. "I think I understand. I'll," he faltered. "I'll take it from here."

"Then go. Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire." And as the battle raged on outside, Uriel Septim's hands left his as the blade of a hidden assassin struck his heart.


	3. Chapter Two

The sun peeked out eagerly behind wisps of clouds, too small compared to the everlasting sky. It was the first thing his eyes found when he left the sewer, dirty and tiny compared to the beautiful environment.

He hummed a bit at the sight, looking at the still water glimmering from the light above. He thought about jumping in and cleaning himself, but he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to swim.

Instead, he sat down on the wooden deck leading out to the stream, pulling the softly-glowing bag into his lap. The Breton dug around, arms extended fully inside, head not taking time to work around how this was physically possible. Finally, he pried it out; a dusty, cracking map, one that he had found off of Glenroy's body.

The thought wasn't really resourceful in the optimism he needed at the moment, so he instead unfolded the paper. It was faded but decipherable, a shape that was presumably a town in the top left singed every so slightly.

He looked towards the center to another black mark, showing where he currently was. Sure enough, he had been in the Imperial Prison, and it kind of stung when that meant absolutely nothing. He desperately needed to do something about that memory of his, or rather, lack thereof.

Sighing, the he reached a thin hand to gently prod a spot on his shoulder, wincing when the slight contact made small waves of pain shoot through his arm. He should put sword fighting on the list of things he needed to learn, because standing there stupidly while a figure in a red robe disarms you and swings a dagger in your shoulder is not fun. That, and how to actually save people instead of having nice chats to them about their impending deaths.

The same hand reached again for something else, too tired and guilty to be surprised when the object found its way to him immediately. The Amulet of Kings glowed brighter than anything he had ever seen, large in his palm. He almost thought about putting it on but abandoned the idea, shoving it back in his bag with a huff and wishing that Baurus was good with healing magic. Or that he was.

The escaped prisoner stumbled to his feet, throwing the bag back over his good shoulder and opting to keep the map out. Regarding it for a few seconds, he headed left, sun already ducking into the growing clouds.

* * *

The Imperial City had made him feel that kind of awe when he first saw it, with polished towers and bustling shops. Large wooden gates and small ponds dotted with sacred lotus had guided him by, and the few septims he had made from scavenged potions and armor almost made him overlook the looks he had received from passerby. The whole place left him with a certain kind of nostalgia as he departed, heading out a few hours before sunrise despite the guards' warnings.

Now, the sun was well into the sky once again as he made his across the priory grounds. It was just a little ways from Chorrol, pensive grey buildings sharing the same theme as the small city. It wasn't the same as the Imperial City, but the small blooming gardens and cozy farmhouses held their own sort of beauty.

He swung the door open without thinking about it much, closing it gently behind him. A monk at the nearby table noticed his arrival and stood, addressing the Breton.

"Welcome to Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to Talos and the Nine Divines." He carried a sort of melancholy, voice low. "I'm Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs. Now, what can I do for you?"

The priest waited patiently for his answer. "Um," he started. "I needed to speak to Jauffre." The name was a little strange on his tongue, an underlaid questioning tone to his reply.

Brother Maborel studied him for a moment before nodding, taking his seat back at the table. "He should be upstairs," he provided, turning his attention to the scroll in his hands. The Breton smiled a smile nobody saw, feet carrying him up the steps.

The priory was made built with dark stone, honey lights giving a certain warmness to the inside that shouldn't otherwise be there. Plush carpets and fine furniture added to the effect, the wooden staircase splitting and leading off to a room holding multiple made beds. He decided on the other way, bookcases heaped with items and more fine carpets leading the way to another priest at the end of the room.

He was situated behind a large desk, head ducked and hands turning at a large book. He held that same deep sadness, too, figure straight and much more muscled than a man that age should be. The escape prisoner stood in front of him nervously for a while, unsure of how to start.

"Jauffre?" He finally decided, voice tiny and half-hidden in his throat. The priest looked up from his book, and he continued. "Are you Jauffre?"

"Yes," he replied, tone conveying slight annoyance. "What do you want?"

He fidgeted nervously, unsure of how to explain. Finally, he just decided to be to the point. "The emperor sent me to find you."

He looked shocked at that. "Emperor Uriel?" He then narrowed his eyes, regarding the Breton with doubled suspicion. "Do you know something about his death?"

"I was there when he died."

The effect was immediate, Jauffre standing in his chair. The action revealed the katana at his waist, the same that the Blades wore in the prison, confirming what Baurus had said.

The Breton looked back into Jauffre's eyes as he spoke. "You better explain yourself. Now."

He launched into a sort of summarization of Uriel's last words, words stumbling over themselves with nervousness he couldn't quite place. When he was finished, he looked hard into Jauffre's guarded eyes as the man sat back down, waiting for him to respond.

"As unlikely as your story sounds," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me carrying the Amulet of Kings." The Breton smiled at him, not too off-put when he received a blank stare back.

"The emperor asked me to find his son," he told the priest, who was now observing him strangely. "Do you know where he is?"

Jauffre looked pained, almost, as his mouth found the next words. "His name is Martin," he told the escaped prisoner, looking down. "He serves Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch, south of here. You must go to Kvatch and find him at once. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger." He raised his head once more for the response.

He shuffled his feet a little, thinking about what to say to the order. "Um," he started out. "Are you sure I'm the, uh, best one for the job?" At Jauffre's raised eyebrows, he added, "I'm not exactly the best with a sword, or with the land."

It was a bit of an understatement, really; he was terrible with the sword that he didn't even own anymore, resembled a stick, had no reliable knowledge of the area and was probably carrying some nasty diseases if the tone of his skin was anything to go by. Not to mention the hastily wrapped wound on his arm- and really, he was bound to drop dead in a few days just due to stench of the sewers that still clung to his sack outfit.

He couldn't quite decipher what the priest was thinking until the words came out. "If what you say is true, which I hold little doubt that it is, than the emperor picked you for the job. It is only right we honor his last dying wish." He nodded bashfully, hands playing with the seams of his pants. The Breton only raised his gaze when Jauffre rose, going over to a chest to his right and unlocking it.

"Please," he offered, gesturing to the large chest as he sat back down. "I keep a few things here to resupply any traveling Blades. Help yourself to whatever you need." He thanked Jauffre tremendously as he went to open the chest, finding it filled with armor, weapons and potions.

He found the iron armor and brought all the pieces out, laying them neatly down as he then reached for the polished steel dagger and all of the potions inside. He slipped them in his sack with ease, interrupting the priest once more to ask if there was any place he could wash off and change. Following his instructions to a nearby secluded pond in the back just for this reason, he scrubbed off any remains of the prison and set to work on the armor.

He had to pull the straps as far as they could go to accommodate his form, the size built for someone much bigger. He managed to tighten them enough so that they wouldn't move or fall off, having to bring back the gauntlets on the account that he couldn't adjust them, only keeping the oversized helmet because he wasn't a complete idiot. Finally, he was heading back out for the last time, feeling a lot better than when he arrived.

Brother Maborel stopped him near the door, giving the Breton a warm smile. "I know that you are on an important mission for the Blades," he said, getting a nod in return. "Please, if you need a horse, take mine from the Priory stables."

His heart warned up a bit at that. "That's a generous offer," the Breton replied, beaming. "Thank you." Brother Maborel bid him farewell as he walked out the door, footsteps a bit lighter.

The sky had faded into a warm orange hue by now as he made his way to the stables. The Dunmer tending to the two steeds told him which one was Maborel's, red eyes kinder than the last pair he saw.

The Breton went over to a strong paint horse, who regarded him evenly. He didn't exactly know how to ride one, so the same Dunmer helped him on, telling him how to direct her and such as he refilled their pans with fresh water. Finally, he grabbed hold of the reins and urges her forward, relieved when she obediently trotted forward. He guided her to the front of the priory, bringing out the map that another priest had marked helpfully for him, jotting down the major cities in neat script.

"Okay," he murmured to his newfound horse. "Let's do this." And she sprinted off at his will, hooves pounding against the neat Imperial roads under the forming stars.

* * *

It was only until he was halfway to Kvatch that he realized he had forgotten to give Jauffre the Amulet of Kings.

He had jumped so hard at the thought that his horse pulled back, jostling him completely and almost knocking him off her back. The Breton had sat there, shocked to the core, until cursing out to the night and urging the horse forward again- and that had been that.

Now, as he walked through the survival camp a certain ways away from the sieged Kvatch, the amulet seemed to weigh down his whole bag. It was jarring, carrying something so precious, but he was too far to turn back.

He left the horse with the others, giving an Orc lady his last few septims to keep her safe. The Breton inquired about Martin, learning that he was a priest and most likely killed in the invasion.

Being told that a man named Savlian Matius might know more, he made his way up the trail to Kvatch with a churning stomach and slow-setting dread. It didn't take long to reach the city, smoke and precisely laid bricks guiding the way.

His sight was immediately directed to a portal of sorts, bright and loud, taller than the walls. It was slightly transparent, only displaying an orange surface that distinctly resembled flames. Interest piqued, he didn't notice the armored captain until he was addressed.

His head snapped forward at the stressed tones. "Stand back, civilian!" He yelled over the noise, and the Breton thought it was a bit unnecessary, but let him continue. "This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!"

He considered asking for more details about what happened, but instead skipped to the point. "I'm not from Kvatch!" He told the officer, voice raising to be heard. "I'm looking for Martin! Do you know him?"

The man shot him a confused look, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "You mean the priest?" At the nod, he continued. "Last I saw him, he was leading a group towards the Chapel of Akatosh. If he's lucky, he's trapped in there with the rest of them, at least safe for the moment. If he's not..." He trailed off, glancing towards the portal.

He sighed, thinking this through. He needed to get Martin, and it was most likely still possible to get the through the walls, but it would likely be guarded by the monsters he had heard of that invaded the city. He felt like trying to help, but the officer made it sound like he wasn't asking for it, and really, it wasn't like he could do much to help either way.

No. Martin was priority at the moment, and even though it made him guilty to think of it, he would have to leave Kvatch to its own devices. "Where's the Chapel?" He finally asked.

The captain regarded him dubiously. "You're not thinking about going in the walls, are you?" At his nod, his eyes hardened. "You realize that the chance of making it back alive are extremely slim, don't you?"

"Please," he begged. "Just tell me."

He finally shrugged, apparently deciding that if he wanted to be a suicidal fool, so be it. "It should be hard to miss. First thing you see when you enter through the gates." He gave the Breton a hard look. "Good luck," he told him before running back to his troops, waiting eagerly for something that he didn't know was.

The Breton nodded to himself, grasping the dagger strapped to his waist for reassurance and pulling on his oversized iron helmet. It barely stayed on his head and he sighed, knowing that he must look like a complete fool, but went forward nonetheless. The portal didn't do anything until he was past it, if the sudden yells and sounds of battle he heard were anything to go by.

He hesitated only for a moment before pushing open the doors.

* * *

The twin moons were set in the sky, midnight canvas displaying its many stars proudly. It was beautiful, sure, but he didn't have much time to dwell on that as he saw what lay inside the walls.

There were only four that he could see, with sharp claws and long tails. They all rounded on him immediately, snarls coming from their fanged mouths, and he resisted the urge to dive right back behind the doors. He was not a good fighter, and that fact came back to haunt the Breton as a group of blood-thirsty, snarling monsters bounded towards him.

He managed to dodge the first fireball thrown his way, swiping at the nearest one with his dagger. He really despised that this had been the only weapon that he could actually hold when he had to get close to the little demons, but gave the thing a good gash along its deformed skull. It hissed at him but backed away, eyes completely black.

Another one threw himself at him but he swiped at it, too, making contact with its chest. It shuddered and he took the opportunity to plunge the knife in its stomach. He had to bite back vomit as it collapsed, bleeding.

Just as he was beginning to feel good about himself the other one recovered, pounding once more and clawing at his face. He avoided it just barely and lunged but was blocked off by another scamp, getting knocked down by the force of it diving on him.

The iron helmet came off his head, rolling away. It reached down with sharp talons, scratching up his cheek badly before he managed to strike it in the arm. The scamp jumped off with a snarl, the others surrounding him as he stood.

The Breton saw more of the creatures come out from the wreckage and burning buildings that now made up Kvatch, growing steadily more nervous. He was surprised he even managed to take out one of them, really, but that wasn't really enough consolation for his impending death. Another one lunged forward, trying to get at his face. He managed to knock it off, but in the scuffle his dagger flew out of his hands.

He came out of his shock quickly enough to grab his helmet and knife, scrambling away towards the large building that couldn't be anything other than the Chapel as more of the creatures ran towards him. His armor weighed him down and despite his sickly thin form he was incredibly slow, so it wasn't much of a surprise when one reached him. He barely pried it off his body, stabbing blindly away.

When he got to the doors, he could only pound on them anxiously upon seeing they were locked. He had to duck to avoid another ball of flame, knocking non-stop on the stone doors.

"Please!" He yelled. "I'm not a monster! Let me through!" No replies came, and his heart sank even lower than he thought it could.

A scamp at his back tackled him from behind, startling him, and the Breton could only yelp as he was thrown against the door. His head was banged painfully against the locked entrance, the metal helmet hastily thrown own rattling his head. He groaned pitifully, more coming to claw against the iron armor he wore.

As he flailed, struggling to stand, more scamps piled up on him. He didn't quite know how, but in a sudden panic his sight went up into flames. His heart sped up and something tugged at his gut, and when his vision came back there were six burned scamps scattered around him, dead.

He stared at the corpses with wide eyes. Did _he_ do that?

He was forced out of the reverie when the doors burst open. A woman with the same armor as the captain outside was the one behind them, brown eyes shining underneath her helmet. She looked at him worriedly, gaze straying to the bodies.

"What," he faltered, quivering. "What took you so long?" It wasn't his intention to be rude, but the timing was slightly ridiculous.

She didn't answer, pulling him inside the doors. He leaned heavily against the walls, watching as the Redguard woman moved back the large dresser holding the doors in place, along with setting back the locks. He supposed that explained the wait, but he was too exhausted to care.

The Chapel was majestic in a way, if not a bit rugged, windows clouded and dirt-covered people huddling over benches. The ceiling reached higher than he felt like looking, air cool and light scarce. You couldn't even hear the battle inside the heavy walls, making the place seem almost like a sanctuary.

She finally finished, walking over to him. "What are you doing here?" She asked, but seemed to regret the harshness of the words when he pulled off his helmet.

"Gods," she breathed, before calling out. "I need a healer!" Someone bounded forward at that but he was too tired to look at them, or much of anything. He was pulled up off the ground, head left spinning at the motion, but let the person drag him off obediently.

The Breton was led down some stairs, feet stumbling and eyes closed as he leaned heavily on the person guiding him. He tried not to feel guilty about that, but he estimated that he probably weighed about two pounds without the armor, so it was a minor consolation. He distinctly heard the opening and closing of a door, and didn't bother to open his eyes even as he was gently pushed into a bed.

It was the other that spoke, deep voice revealing that it was a male. "What have you been doing?" The question sounded like it didn't really required an answer, but he gave it one anyway.

"Running around in sewers," he mumbled. A palm rested on his forehead, soft and smooth, as he spoke. "I wanted to take a bath when I got out, but then the rocks started trying to eat me, so I just went to the priory." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why do the rocks do that?"

He heard the other man stifle a chuckle. "It was probably a mudcrab," he offered. "Nasty creatures."

The Breton silently agreed, frowning slightly when the palm went away. It went to rest on his cheek instead, and a shimmering sound filling his ears as the broken skin started sewing together. "What are you doing?" He muttered, trying to open his eyes but failing.

Another hand pushed down at the chest he had unknowingly been raising, not hard enough to force, which the Breton appreciated. "It's okay," the voice said. "I'm just casting a small healing spell on you."

He did as he was told, thinking about the spell he had casted on the monsters. It was strange; he had tried to use magicks for a while now, hoping maybe that he would be more successful with that than blades, but had never managed to get beyond a slight spark at his fingers. It seemed that he was right, and if he actually learned how to control that, might actually survive the trip back to Weynon Priory.

Suddenly, his mind came back to him. The spell had stopped long ago and had been replaced by another one, the healer having told him it was to cure the disease he had picked up in the sewers. Before it was finished he jolted up, opening his eyes and trying to ignore the protests his head made.

"I need to find Martin," he said, adapting to the dark room. "The- the priest." He fixed his gaze on the man perched on a stool next to the bed, vision slightly blurred. "Do you know him?"

"Yes," he answered, voice a bit confused and tone more than a little concerned. "Why do you ask?"

"Uriel, he-" he stopped as his vision finally cleared, getting a good view of the man's face. "You," and he faltered at those intense eyes, the color that reminded him of kind smiles and prisons and assassins and death. "You are Martin."

And as the emperor's son nodded, his rich blue eyes twinkled in a way not unlike his father's.


	4. Chapter Three

The portal to Oblivion lay right in front of him, daedric metal entwining a mass of fire. Heat resonated off the gate, smoke coming off from it in tiny tendrils, distinct shapes in the flames swirling around all that it was.

And he was about to go in the thing.

He rolled his shoulders, giving a backwards glance to Savlian, who replied with a confident smile. He turned back, looking at the barely intact walls of Kvatch, a small curse going out to the last son of Uriel Septim before stepping through.

It wasn't nearly as painful as he thought it would be, just a sort of warmness spreading over his gut. He almost expected to sail straight through the portal, but the world that greeted him on the other side was definitely not Tamriel.

His eyes glazed over, pupils wide with fear at the sight. The sky was made of fire and orange lightning, thunder booming across the whole land. The earth under his feet was cracking, stained red. The air smelled of smoke and tasted like blood, and a jagged gate stood tall directly in front of the portal, guarding the shadow of a huge tower in the distance.

The Breton would've stood there longer, gawking in horror, if not for an inhuman screech. His eyes found a scamp similar to those that had been invading Kvatch, bounding over to one of the city's guardsmen. As he watched, the guard ran past the gate, holding up his shield to block against the creature. The Breton grabbed a hold of the sharpened steel dagger strapped to his waist, courtesy of Tierra, running over to the two.

The guard jumped in shock when he caught sight of him, mouth slack under his chain-mail helmet, shield lowering slightly. His blade went through the scamp's stomach before it could take advantage of the weakened defense, pulling it out of the limp body with little difficulty.

"Hello," he greeted the guard, a bit too cheerfully in a place like this. He glanced down at his dagger, covered in rich crimson, before sheathing the weapon and holding out a hand to shake. "Are you Ilend Vonius?"

The man disregarded the hand completely, going forward and enveloping the Breton in a bone-crushing hug. He stumbled back in surprise, but didn't push the guard back as he started to speak.

"Thank the Nine!" He exclaimed, and the arms around him tightened for a moment. "I never thought I'd see another friendly face," he admitted, and the quiver in his voice made the Breton slightly reluctant to pull back.

"So you are Ilend?" He asked, reciting the name as Matius had told him, and the man gave a nod. "What happened?"

Ilend trembled slightly. "The others... taken... they were taken to the tower!" He choked out. "Captain Matius sent us in to try and close the gate. We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge. They took Menien off to the big tower. You've got to save him! I'm getting out of here!" The Breton held out his hands, taking a deep breath, and Ilend waited.

"Hold on," he said, slightly hating himself, but if he was going to close the gate for some stubborn priest, he wasn't going to do it alone. "I could use your help here."

Ilend seemed to consider it, before reluctantly nodding. "You're right. You're right," he amended. "I can't just leave poor Menian to his fate. If he's still alive, we've got to try to save him. Alright," he said, grip tightening on his sword. "Lead the way. Let's find Menian and get out of here."

The Breton smiled thankfully, heart lifting a little. Okay, so he had help. Now what?

He knew what tower to go to, but it was far out into the strange plane. The heat was starting to get to him, sweat plastering his messy brown hair to his forehead, and the Breton already missed Martin's spells. They had made him feel a million times better, but the effects already seem to start wearing off, and he didn't know quite how far his mental well-being was going to tolerate Oblivion for a couple strangers he literally met within the last two days.

Three days? Hm.

He sighed before taking up a slow walk, picking his way over the crumbling ground under his feet. His eyes kept darting from side to side, anxious, as Ilend followed at the same pace from behind. A few monsters came at them, but it was a relatively easy journey until they reached the plants.

They weren't like the clumps of who-knows-what he had spotted, sitting at the crooks of lava pits and growing between rocks. No, these were huge and lightly colored, thorns protruding along the length of the vines, and they didn't think much of it until one of them lashed out across his face.

He stumbled back in shock, holding out a hand when Ilend started to run towards him. The Breton slowly backed up from the root, wincing at the feeling of hot air against the cut. The scratch was deep, running along the side of his face from his right temple to his chin, and blood already started peaking through the cracks. He was glad that Martin had healed his previous wound on his cheek as the root shuddered, whipping at the skies above.

"C'mon," he mumbled, and they did, picking their way over through a couple more scamps. His skin felt as if it was going to melt off from the heat as they reached the tower, air heavy and forceful down his throat. That pain combined with an ache that had settled in his bones distracted him enough that he didn't see the monster hiding in the shadows, face abhorred and sword wicked.

It screeched as his foot touched the steps leading to the entrance, a ragged door camouflaged within the walls and marked with strange symbols, and he winced at the sound. He barely managed to dodge as its blade came for him, and the Breton caught a close view of the marred sword, made of crimson-stained metal and glowing softly.

Ilend came up behind him, striking the creature, but his sword merely glanced off its skin. It snarled at the guard, face so twisted he couldn't face it, and fire untangled itself from inhuman fingertips to knock the man back. The Breton shouted at that, running forward and placing all his might into a stab directly into the monster's forehead, suddenly glad that Martin had forced some food down his throat before he left on his quest.

What had he called it? "Idiotic task" or " utter suicide" or something equally disheartening? That was definitely agreeable, he mused to himself, extracting the dagger out of the beast's skull. That, and all evidence that proved he was a fool that _seriously_ needed to get his priorities straight- because, even though they might be pretty, you don't go strolling through gates of Oblivion for a dead king and his dumb son. Unless you were, in fact, a fool that needed to get his priorities straightened.

He ran over to where Ilend lay, groaning, gently removing the guard's fingers from his chest to observe the wound. The Breton winced at the sight, chain-mail armor melting into skin, Kvatch symbol on his cuirass smoking. He wished he had noticed the various bruises and wounds covering the man's body, wished he actually knew how to use Magicka, because Ilend was dead before he hit the ground.

The Breton said a few words to gods he didn't know the names of, standing up and observing the sword left by the beast. He was pretty sure that they were called daedra, at least, but he didn't think it truly mattered.

The blade itself was smooth, point unimaginably sharp, the darkest red he had ever seen and inscribed with strange symbols that glowed white at angles. The hilt was jagged, handle rough but mending perfectly with his palm. It was heavy in his hand so he held it in both, the weight somehow balancing between the sturdy grip, metal cool to the touch.

He felt ashamed about it, but there was no way he was leaving this weapon behind- not something this beautiful. After several failed attempts at trying to put the sword in his bag he had brought along (because even enchantments had limits, it seemed) he remembered the rusty greatsword he had found in the tunnels through the Imperial Prison, and his shaking hands finally found it's sheathe, complete with a strap. He secured the daedric sword around his back, realizing that he was in no fit condition to swing something that heavy around, and dug out his last two potions.

He downed the larger one, feeling his energy seep back into him like one of Martin's spells. The Breton slipped the smaller one back in the bag hanging from his belt, and the iron armor he wore didn't feel as heavy and limiting as it had throughout the journey. He gave one last fleeting look to Ilend Vonius's corpse before heading to the door.

* * *

The door didn't have any handles, but quivered at his touch. When it opened, it split in the middle, gooey substance stringing across the opening and hanging from the sides. He was careful not to cut himself from the pointed spikes that seemed too much like teeth dotting the opening, cringing slightly as his skin made constant with the strange substance.

The inside was dark and cool, feeling like bliss to his burning skin. The door clamped shut behind him, the first thing he noticed being a fiery beam functioning as the centerpiece of the tower. It was surrounded by a large pit, shooting upwards into a ceiling he couldn't find, emanating a sound he couldn't place.

The Breton stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, hearing the snarling of creatures that amazingly hadn't seen him yet. Perhaps they were blind? He didn't dwell on it, eyeing a strange pedestal displaying a ball of blue light near the doorway. He decidedly backed away from it, pulling out his dagger when as he was spotted.

There were only a few scamps in the room, and it was slowly becoming easier to defeat them. As he made his way into the side passages, eyes squinting in the darkness of the halls and gradually ascending the tower, he grew better at dodging their strikes and stabbing their hearts. It went smoothly for a long while, barely evading traps but escaping them all the same, when he suddenly found himself out into the plane of Oblivion once more.

The bridge was far too narrow and the drop far too deep, smoky air and high temperature trying to burn him into a crisp. He craved to go back inside but needed the key to the door to continue, and this was the only other passage he hadn't traveled through yet.

He made his way carefully across the bridge, iron armor overpowering his sickly thin form, his newly acquired daedric sword clanking against his back. The Breton made a resolution to himself that if he actually got out of this alive, the first thing he was going to do was stuff his face silly with food, Martin Septim and Kvatch all be damned.

His hands reached out to the slab of stone that stood for doors in this Realm, finding it to open too slowly for his liking. As soon as it closed behind him, air not as cool but room not as dark, he heard the scared cries of an actual person.

_Menien_, he remembered, deducting that the shouts came from above. The building was arranged in a demented spiral, branching off the main tower, half crumbling on its roots. He started upwards, not taking sight of the daedra until he was at the top.

It spoke before attacking, voice rumbling and unimaginably deep, sounding like it was gurgling its own blood as words escaped its tongue. "You should not be here, mortal," and the sentence sent shivers down his back. "Your blood is forfeit!" It yelled, and the Breton saw who he presumed to be Menien cowering in his cage. "Your flesh is mine!"

It came forward with a nasty looking mace, and he almost died from fear right there. It seemed easier when Ilend had been with him, out in the open plane- but this, this was downright terrifying, and reminded him of his terrible lack of sword skills.

He avoided the first strike, observing that all manner of Oblivion nasties were ugly and clumsy, but was not prepared for the second that raked his armor. It didn't cause any fatal wounds thanks to the tough metal shielding him, but the Breton found the breath knocked out of his lungs. He stumbled and fell back on the floor, head banging against the wall, and regretted the idiotic decision to leave his helmet back at the chapel- even if it was three times the size of his head, so was everything else he wore.

Black beady eyes gleamed down on him, mace raised to come crashing down at his skull, and he braces himself for death. When it didn't come he pried open his eyelids, being greeted with the sight of the daedra sprawled out on the floor. Frost was lightly dusting the back of the creature, the after-effects of the spell it was blasted with, and he took the chance to reclaim his fallen dagger and thrust it through the monster's one weak point.

Only when the body went limp did he pull the weapon out of its skull, wiping the possibly permanent blood-tainted blade off on his person. It didn't do much to clean against the armor, but it never did, and it really wasn't the biggest problem to deal with right now, so he just sucked it up and sheathed the knife. His head was still pounding and his nostrils were full of the scent of decay, which he didn't quite understand, but he pushed it aside and went to the man who had saved his life.

"Thank you," he managed to choke out, tone sincere. The man didn't face him, huddled in a small ball in the corner, and he distinctly wondered if this was the guy who had blasted the daedra to pieces. "Um," he began, like he always did. "Are you Menien?" His mind fumbled for the last name Savlian had given him, but he couldn't find it. He decided to let the question settle roughly in the air, waiting for a response.

He let his attention wander over the room while Menien gradually deranged himself from the defensive position, regretting it when he looked to the ceiling. Naked corpses were strung to the top, mutilated and rotten, and he suddenly found he could place the smell of death. The Breton had to push down the bile coming up his throat, stomach churning at the sight.

Menien's rough voice jarred him from his thoughts. "Have you got the key?" He asked, jumping to a shout when he only received a dumbfounded look. "You must get the Keeper's key- it's the only way into the Sigil Keep!"

He blinked. "Sigil Keep?" He questioned, but Menien seemed to be done talking, only mumbling nonsense under his breath and rocking slightly. The Breton nodded to himself, working up the courage to approach the daedra's corpse. After a few embarrassing moments of fumbling through the cracks and chips of its armor- which, a dark part of his mind mused, was probably the creature's natural skin- he found the key tied to its neck. It was secured by a strong chain of dark red metal, the same the greatsword on his back was made from, and he had to tug it roughly off the daedra's neck.

He didn't pay the item any mind, simply stuffing it into his bag and crawling back over to the Kvatch guard. The man now had his eyes trained steadily on him, and the Breton liked to imagine it was because he had figured out he wasn't going to hurt him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was never given the chance. Menien's stressed tones hushed any words he could have provided, form shaking. "Take the key. Get to the Sigil Keep, and find the Sigil Stone. It's the only way."

He held up his hands, and Menien cowered in response, so he put them back down and instead spoke. "Listen," he tried to reason. "You're under a lot of trauma right now. How about we get you out-"

"No!" He shouted harshly, and the Breton stopped. "Don't worry about me, there's no time! Get moving!" He sighed, standing, and started to observe the cage for any openings.

The guard only watched him cautiously, lips pulled into a frown, his face dirty with soot and blood. Seeing as the daedra used corpses for decor, he didn't really want to know what they had done to the guard. No; the only thing he wanted to know was how to get him out.

And it was when the guard started crying, whispering more words of nonsense to himself, that he realized that the cages were built to only hold things inside of them- not to set them free.

* * *

He decided to call the tower the Blood Feast.

It had something to do with the pit of lava and the fiery beam, because he realized that at a distance they looked more like blood than flames. Mostly though, it was because of the strange symbols scrawled out on the doors; if he looked at them hard and long enough, he could find readable words inside the mangled shapes, some of them that he didn't _want_ to read.

The Breton had spent a few hours doing exactly just that: staring at the door, trying to figure out how the damn key went through it. The key wasn't much of a key at all, simply a glorified metal twig, so when he punched the closed entrance in frustration and felt a slight burning in his palm, he came to the notion that the "key" wasn't for this door.

It did, however, fit perfectly into the thin slot embedded in the top door, all the way on the highest floor so that he could see the ceiling. The marks on the walls told him it was the Sigilium Sanguis, and when he watched the Dremora topple over the railing and into the lava pit hundreds of feet below, only feeling a sort of resignation, he realized that he was going a bit crazy.

The Breton forced himself through the last room. The floors leading up to the Sanguis squished under his feet, pale and bloody, smelling of decay. He flinched every time his feet walked across the spans of no doubt human flesh, hands grasping at the walls in sudden sickness, and downed the very last potion he had saved for this occasion. It felt warm in his gut like the ones back in the sewers had but unlike Martin's spells, and he realized he had picked one of the potions that didn't work.

He ran for the top.

The large cluster of Dremora and scamps caught onto him quickly, swords bristling, the beam of fire so close to his person that he could feel the heat radiating off it in waves. He only killed about two scamps before realizing that this would not end well if he played the hero, and dashed up the last floors. These were soft and bouncy under his iron boots, too, but too red and strong to be the remnants of men and mer. He shivered still, hating Oblivion more and more by the second.

The Breton didn't get very far up until he was cornered. It was at the very top, the stone engulfed in rich flames in the corner of his eye, but snarling daedra blocked his path to freedom. They knocked the dagger out of his hands swiftly, and it went down over the edge, going, going, gone- like his life would be.

He reached out to pull his daedric greatsword, feeling it mend into his palms, but only hissed when that comfort turned into a full-blown burn. He hastily dropped the weapon, regretting the decision immediately, but then the regret turned into spite and he was almost happy to let it go.

He didn't fully register when he reached down into the pit of his stomach, feeling _fear_ and _helplessness_ and the disbelief of being _so close_- didn't fully register when a storm sparked at his fingertips and blew the monsters away. Didn't register when he grabbed onto the Sigil Stone, or when he reclaimed his sword in a fit of desperation. He only noticed the flames eating at the world around him, pulling both objects to his shivering form, knowing that the stone would take him home.

The fire died after seconds- seconds that felt like years, wasting away in a Realm of heat but feeling much too cold. The rain was welcome, drops of water pouring down his bright-red skin, smoke coming off from the contact. The darkness was even more welcome; taking him away from the world, forcing his eyelids shut.

* * *

_Check out my _**Bio**_ for any news on this story and my others, including update times (not set dates), expectations to reach for next chapters, and any thanks to you humans for viewing/favoriting/following/reviewing this story._


	5. Chapter Four

_Is it a bit short? Maybe. Bit of a filler, to be honest, but next one will be much longer. _

_Enjoy._

* * *

The sun was placed high above their heads, beaming down on the two travelers mercilessly. They stayed to the fine roads, dotted with large trees and the occasional bandit, no wind to blow apart the thin trails of clouds or to rustle the rich leaves.

His hands played with the white fabric primarily making up his cuirass, still recounting when Savlian gave it to him after the battle for Kvatch. It had been an ugly battle in the end, beginning with hope for a lost city, ending with the death of their Count. He wished he could do more than stab a few daedra and collect stones, but the only reason he was still walking was because the dozens of potions he had digested. That, and Martin's spells.

The Breton glanced at Uriel's son, fingers subconsciously brushing against the lingering scar on his cheek from what felt like a millennia ago. He couldn't even remember when his shoulder had stopped aching from the incident in the prison, and it was all thanks to the priest, really.

It was only when they couldn't see the smoke rising from Kvatch's remains that he spoke. "Are you okay, then?"

Martin looked him over, raising an eyebrow, robe torn and dirty but face oddly clean. "My home was destroyed, my true father dead, and you wish to know if I am 'okay'?" The Breton shrugged, mentally digging a ditch and hiding in it. He looked down at the iron boots on his feet, daedric greatsword feeling heavy on his back.

Yes, he knew he useless. But did he really deserve that? He closed the fetching gate to Oblivion, for the gods' sake! The Breton sighed through his nose, crossing his small arms and frowning. Maybe if he had been quicker...?

He looked up when a strong hand rested on his shoulder, meeting glimmering blue irises and apologetic features. "I'm sorry," Martin said, meaning every word. "You didn't deserve that."

"It was a stupid question," he offered, wishing he still had that burst of adrenaline from way back in Oblivion. His heart beat too slow, movements too sluggish, and it was kind of sickening.

"Yes, it was," Martin agreed, retracting the appendage, and they shared a smile. He pulled the map from bag, checking to see if they were still on the right track, carefully making sure not to rip the slowly-crumbling paper. The priest left him to it, looking over at endlessly stretching grass fields, lost in thought.

He put the map back in, hands brushing against the empty sheath on his belt, recalling the knife as it fell from the Sangillium Sanguis. His eyes find the Kvatch insignia on his cuirass, similar to Ilend and Menien, all drove mad or kill viciously in the end- sometimes both. He briefly wondered what became of Menien when the portal closed- if he's forever lost in Oblivion forever, cowering in his cage.

"So," Martin started, breaking the silence. "How did you get caught in this mess?"

He looked at the priest, considering, before giving an answer. "Well, I met your father," he said, mulling it over. "And he gave me this necklace to give to this other guy, and then the other guy told me to get you." He went through the explanation briefly in his mind before adding; "Oh, and he died. Your father, I mean, but I guess you already knew that. Still, it wasn't a very nice occurrence."

Martin's eyes were flickering with barely concealed amusement. "Are you joking?"

He shrugged. "I was in prison, and the Emperor was running from assassins. He had to use this shortcut or something, which cut into my cell. I just kind of followed. He was a kind man." _You look just like him._

"Why were you in prison?" The Breton frowned slightly, searching for memories and finding none.

"Truthfully?" He asked, and Martin nodded. "I have no idea."

"How do you not know why you were in prison? Are the guards corrupted?"

He shook his hear hurriedly. "No, nothing like that. I just can't remember why I was put in there."

Martin furrowed his eyebrows. "You can't remember?" At the Breton's confirming nod he continued. "Well, what can you remember?"

"I know how to speak, and walk," he offered honestly. "Besides that, not much. I don't even know my name. Just waking up in a cell."

"Oh." Martin seemed to think about that. "You don't have a name?"

"Not one that comes to mind," he replied. Martin looked away after that, staring into the scenery, and the Breton tried not to feel crestfallen. He went back to fiddling with his armor's light fabric, happy that it wasn't heavy like iron. His only weapon glowed on his back, engraved with symbols from a lost language.

After a while, Martin spoke again. "Do you want a name?" The Breton thought about the question briefly, running a hand through thick hair.

"As much as anyone else," he finally said, and Martin seemed to take his answer as seriously as his expression.

They left it at that for a long time, two souls walking above Tamriel's soil, lost in contemplation.

* * *

The first thing he saw when they reached Weynon Priory was a sword pointed at his face, the first thing he heard being screams.

It was one of the assassins that had killed Uriel, or at least he resembled one of them. The blade was conjured, shimmering with Magicka, a demand for the Amulet of Kings booming behind a thick helmet.

He didn't know what to say to that, the man appearing out of thin air, but Martin's blast of lightning seemed to be enough. The offender was launched into the sky, skull banging against stones, reminding him of all the death he'd seen in his few days of life.

Martin and another Dunmer made quick work of the rest, he himself standing there uselessly. He felt a bit sheepish at that, but that went away when he saw Brother Maborel's corpse.

He ran toward it as the last assassin was finished, falling to his knees in front of the dead body. He heard Martin come up behind him, voice sympathetic.

"The Dunmer says that Jauffre might be in the Chapel." He offered a hand, but the Breton didn't take it.

"He gave me his horse," he murmured sadly, recalling the bloody steed sprawled along the grounds, all as a result from attacking scamps while he was away.

Martin took the incentive to pull him to his feet, the Breton stumbling slightly. Martin thrust an iron dagger in his hands, elaborating at his confused expression.

"I understand that you're fond of knives," he explained, leaving the Breton to briefly wonder how that was discovered. "And, well," he continued, glancing at the greatsword with something akin to disgust. "I don't believe you'll be using that anytime soon."

He thanked Martin, taking the offered blade, feeling it in his hand. It was light and fitting, and he lead the way to the Chapel with renewed courage.

They were greeted by the sight of Jauffre, standing tall, fighting off three of the killers at once. They immediately went to help fend off the attackers, Martin blasting spell after spell like he wished he could, Jauffre's katana shining proudly.

It was fine until the other two teamed up, unknowingly leaving him with his own guy. He hadn't realized how truly weak the journey to Oblivion had made him, and was disarmed within seconds. The offender shot a gust of ice his way, knocking him off his feet. The bag was snatched off his waist like they knew what they were looking for, contents dumped out, and he watched as potions, a forgotten bow and arrows, and his map fell out. The Amulet of Kings was last, glowing brightly.

It was snatched by the attacker just as his comrade was dealt with, and he ran out of the Chapel doors, disappearing with a spell. The Breton cried out, heart sinking, as the others ran toward him.

Martin pulled him to his feet, shivering tremendously, and started to gather up his items. The priest tucked them into his too-small bag without question, handing the bag back and shrouding him with healing Magicks.

When it was done, he looked sadly at Jauffre, the very fate of Tamriel gone with his thief. Even when the Blade dashed outside in a hopeless chase, even when Martin gave him back the dagger with a reassuring smile, he didn't bat an eye.

And, under his breath, in his mind- that was the moment he swore to get it back, swore to save the world.


	6. Chapter Five

_The update took longer than I wanted it to, but I'm not really feeling guilty about it. Tell you why at the bottom. Meet me there?_

* * *

The fortress was high in the mountains, cold winds cutting through his light armor and chilling his bones. They made it just as the effects of the numerous potions he had taken started to wear off, when the moons had just set but the day hadn't come yet, the sun hidden behind a rocky horizon.

He glanced behind him to where Jauffre and Martin followed, each sporting horses of their own. Traveling overnight was not something that he would be looking forward to anytime soon, and by his companions' expressions, they shared his thoughts.

Jauffre dismounted swiftly, striding past the Breton, who was sure to keep his eyes down. Neither of them had talked after the ambush, not really, and he wasn't planning on doing so anytime soon. People had died because of his mistakes, and the _world_ could very well end for the same reason.

The robed man brought his hand to knock on the thick stone doors, a sequence quick and obviously practiced. The Breton spared a look to Martin as he, too, dismounted, being meet with a warm smile that didn't reach his eyes.

The doors opened slowly after a small moment, creaking gently into the early stages of dawn. A man dressed in Blades armor was behind them, helmet hiding his face. He approached Jauffre quickly, voice deep.

"Grandmaster, is this-" He didn't get the sentence out as Jauffre interrupted, voice and demeanor tense.

"Yes, Cyrus," he said, impatience filtering in his tone. "This is Martin Septim."

Cyrus walked forward as the Breton backed up, feeling out of place. "Milord," the Blade addressed Martin, who didn't look too happy about it. "I welcome you to Cloud Ruler Temple. We have not had the honor of an Emperor's visit in many years," he admitted, looking at the priest for a reply.

"Oh, well, thank you," he said, words uncertain. "The honor is mine."

"Come," Jauffre spoke, starting to walk past Cyrus. "Your Blades are waiting to meet you."

Cyrus nodded, waiting for Martin. The Breton stayed where he was, unsure of what he was supposed to do- it wasn't like they needed him anymore, right? He had already screwed the world enough.

Uriel's son turned to him then, coming over and pulling on his arm, unnecessarily tugging him along. He shot the priest a look, eyebrows raised as the doors were closed at their backs, only receiving a shrug in response.

"Why are you doing this?" He whispered as they climbed the large set of stairs, sun stretching higher to reach the clouds. Martin again didn't answer so he didn't press, letting himself fall behind as they reached the top.

The Blades had lined up in two paths, creating a walkway for Martin to go through. The Breton stopped stubbornly, letting the others continue, and even considered helping Cyrus stable the horses. Jauffre's words distracted him before he could, however, causing him to focus on the man.

"Fellow Blades," he started, giving the few that had gathered a hard look each. "Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch." He let that sink in, pausing briefly. "The Empire is in chaos," he continued. "But there is yet hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim."

The Breton brought his hands to his ears as the guards raised their katanas to the air simultaneously, calling out praise. It only leaves the air quiet when they stop, tense silence making the atmosphere uneasy.

"Your Highness," Jauffre says to Martin, voice soft, but even as far as he is he can still here it. "The Blades are under your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne."

He can't see the emotions in Martin's features from the distance, but he can hear them in his voice. "Jauffre," he gets out, hesitantly. "Blades. I understand that you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best," he promises. "But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches, but... I wanted you to know, that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove my self worthy of your loyalty in the coming days." He falters, all of them hanging on to his every word. "That's it. Thank you."

The Breton almost feels sorry for the priest, hoping the sympathy in his expression travels over to Martin, but doubting that it does. "Well, then," Jauffre says for them, reassuring. "Thank you, Martin." In a louder voice, he calls out to one of the Blades. "We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?"

They disperse after that, most taking up posts while a few head back inside, all giving Martin a nod or greeting. The snow starts to fall, then, sparse flakes getting lost in his hair, and he's surprised when Martin comes over and speaks to him.

"Not much of a speech, was it?" He questions, embarrassed. "They didn't seem to mind, though, I suppose."

"You did good," he replies, making as much sincerity as he can seep into the answer. "Really, I liked it."

The smile he receives is worth the trouble. "The Blades hailing me and saluting me as Martin Septim..." He trails off, in wonder. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he adds hastily, even though he doesn't. "I knew I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you."

He shakes his head then, blocking off whatever else Martin was going to say. "Please, don't thank me," he pleads, hating the praise. "I messed up, Martin."

"Everyone makes mistakes," he insists, and an abstract piece of snow gets disappears in his mop of hair, blue irises glimmering.

"Not ones as big as this," he says back, glumly. Martin puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, even though it should be the other way around, and he doesn't know what to make of it.

"We'll figure it out," the priest says, except he isn't much of a priest anymore, and the Breton can't bring himself to care. "Maybe Jauffre will know where to start," Martin suggests, and he reluctantly nods. The Imperial smiles at him again, removing the hand, and bidding him a quick farewell before heading inside.

He stands there, Jauffre his only company, and lets the Grandmaster approach him. He's the one to speak first, however, not wanting to go just yet.

"The Amulet of Kings," he starts, giving the ground beneath his iron boots full attention. "Do you know where they could have taken it?"

"Baurus has been researching anything he can about the assassins. He's bound to know where they could have taken it, or how we can find out." The Breton nods, playing with his fingers, and is about to turn away when Jauffre continues. "You should meet him there. He's in the Imperial City."

His head snaps up to meet Jauffre's eyes, which are dark and brown and tell nothing. His response comes in stutters. "You mean-?"

"Well, after you've had some rest first," he compensates. "You are welcome to use the barracks in the West Wing. And I'll have a Blade bring to you something better suited for combat." He glances at the rusty knife at his hip and the daedric greatsword on his back, but the Breton is still a few sentences behind.

"You will still let me help," he says, trying the words on his tongue, letting them lift off into the air. He doesn't know what he feels, deciding on relief.

"I still mean what I told you earlier, when we first met." He waits for the Breton to remember, clarifying briefly. "The Emperor choose you for the job. I will not disrespect his wishes, especially when all is not lost. I trust that you will be more than adequate to assist Baurus in his mission."

The Breton tries to agree, even though he can't force himself to believe it, but nods either way. Jauffre seems satisfied with the response. "I'll tell you what inn Baurus is staying at in the morning," the Grandmaster informs him, stepping away, even though it already is morning. "Get some sleep," he calls out before retreating back inside, just as the snow begins to fall some more and he thinks he might die of happiness.

* * *

The Imperial City was just as beautiful as it had been before, majestic trees shading him from the ferocious sun above, perfect paved roads glimmering under his feet. Last time he was here, all he received were dirty looks. Now that he was clean and fed, he could appreciate the welcoming smiles thrown in his direction, traveling through the big oak doors and tall stone towers.

He strolled in between districts, getting directions from one of the guards. Polished statues stood proudly in the city and silk red banners hanging from homes swayed in the gentle breeze, the journey to Luther Broad's peaceful and worth every second.

It wasn't too hard to recognize Baurus sitting at the bar, only one other customer in the room, but it was still surprising to see the Redguard without his armor. He hesitantly walked over, feeling strange in the new pair of clothes he had received before leaving the temple, and tapped the man on his shoulder.

If he recognized the Breton he didn't show it, raising an eyebrow. It was only when the bartender turned away and the person in the corner focused on his drink that he spoke.

"Sit down," he whispered, words emitting from the corner of his mouth. "Don't say anything. Just do what I say."

The Breton nodded discreetly, taking the seat next to him at the bar. He figured he should probably buy a drink but he didn't exactly have any money, so he just sat and stared glumly at the countertop while the bartender scowled at him from the other end of the room.

"Listen," Baurus eventually said, and he did. "I'm going to get up in a minute and walk out of here. That guy in the corner behind me will follow me. You follow him."

He nodded again, even though the other wasn't facing in his direction. "I'm ready when you are."

"Good." Baurus sounded impressed, like he was expecting some sort of objection. "Remember, wait for him to follow me. I want to see what he'll do." He rose from the chair, heading towards the side door and into what he presumed to be the basement. And, sure enough, the man stood up and followed.

The Breton peeked at the bartender before going to the side, seeing the man preoccupied with some customers. He opened the basement door as quietly as he could, closing it in the same manner, and peeking past the corner to where Baurus' stalker was.

He stopped at the base of the stairs, holding up a hand, and the Breton watched in wonder as the hilt of a steel longsword shimmered into existence between his fingers. Armor came along with the gust of Magicka, black with threads of red, when Baurus appeared in his line of vision with his katana.

They sparred for a short moment until the Breton came back to his senses, crouching low behind the assassin and unsheathing a shiny new elven dagger. He remembered when one of the female Blades had given it to him with kind eyes and soft words, just as he dug the sharp blade into the enemy's back.

The man crumbled, conjured armor fading away, and Baurus' voice was the first thing to greet him.

"Search his body," he ordered, going into the hall. "I'll go and check to see if any of his friends are nearby." The Redguard went back to the inn floor, door closing shut. He shrugged to himself, kneeling on the ground and reluctantly searching the deceased man's body.

He found some gold but couldn't bring himself to take it, instead going for the large book concealed in his coat. Its cover was velvet with fancy golden script, but the most he could read was town names at the moment so he didn't bother. Baurus came back only after a few seconds, this time wearing the first smile he had seen all day.

"Good work," he congratulated, spotting the book in his hands. "I _am_ glad to see you, by the way. You just caught me at a bad time."

He'll say. The Breton didn't really know what to feel about cornering some guy in a basement and backstabbing him, but he figured he'd get over it. Especially since it was an assassin he had killed, not a defenseless civilian.

Yeah, he would get over it. "What have you learned?" He questioned, accepting the Blade's hand. He sheathed his dagger as soon as he was standing, deciding to deal with the blood later.

"The assassins that killed the Emperor were part of a daedric cult known as the Mythic Dawn," he said, but the Breton kind of figured that much as far as the "daedric" part went. It was strange, how he couldn't read anymore than a words, and yet could recognize a daedric sword when he came across it. Maybe it was because of his short time in Oblivion.

Okay, he didn't need to think about that anymore. "Apparently, they worship the Daedra Lord, Mehrunes Dagon." He waited, the name ringing a bell in the back of his mind, though he couldn't figure out why. "I've been tracking their agents in the Imperial City," the Redguard continued. "I guess they've noticed."

Now it was his turn. "The enemy has the Amulet," he blurted out.

"What?" The effect was immediate, and he winced. "They took it from Jauffre?"

He sighed. "Not exactly." He didn't elaborate on it, though, and Baurus didn't force him to, so he continued. "On the bright side, I also found Uriel's heir. His name is Martin Septim."

The frown turned into a beaming grin, the joy almost infectious. "Thank Talos he lives!" Baurus exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loud, but he didn't have the heart to mention it. "Martin Septim, you say?" The Breton made a noise of confirmation in his throat, but he didn't think Baurus was really paying attention. "We will restore him to the throne! It is the sworn duty to all the Blades, and with him, there is still hope."

He agreed, not really understanding how that worked, but it didn't seem like the best moment to ask. "What's our next move?"

"There's a scholar at the Arcane University," Baurus explained, meeting his eye. "Tar-Meena's her name. Supposed to be an expert on daedric cults." He gestured to the book in his hands, thinking. "Why don't you take that book to her, see what she makes of it. I'll keep running down leads at the Mythic Dawn network."

"Sure," he smiled, and Baurus grinned back.

"If you learn anything, you can find me at Luther Broad's. May Talos guide you." He didn't know who Talos was but he shot the same farewell back, letting Baurus lead them back out the basement.

* * *

He eventually found her in the Arcane University, sitting down at one of the two benches in the room with a large book in her hands. He approached her quietly, tapping her on the shoulder, and she gestured for him to take a seat beside her.

"Ah," she said, voice gravely but kind. "You must be the one I got the message about. How can I help you?"

"Um," he said, holding the velvet book to his chest. "What do you know about the Mythic Dawn?"

She seemed shocked, eyes widening. "You know of them?" She asked, not waiting for an answer. "They are one of the most secretive of all the daedric cults. Not much is known about them." He let her talk, relaxing in his seat just slightly. "They follow the teachings of Mankar Camoran, whom they call the Master. A shadowy figure in his own right."

Her red irises landed on the book in his hands, seemingly just noticing it. "Ah, yes. 'Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes'. Wonderful! You have a scholarly interest in daedric cults, then?"

He sent her an apologetic smile. "Actually, I need to find the Mythic Dawn," he admitted.

She frowned slightly, but otherwise masked her disappointment. "Find them, eh?" She sighed, multicolored scales shining brilliantly under the dim lights of the room. "I won't poke my nose any further, official business and all that. I'm used to working with the Blades, don't worry. Say no more."

He looked at her to continue, and she did. "In any case, finding them won't be easy. I've studied Mankar Camoran's writings a bit myself, at least those I could find. It is clear from the text that Mankar Camoran's texts come in four volumes, but I've only ever seen the first two books. I believe that his writings contain hidden clues to the location of the Mythic Dawn's secret shrine to Mehrunes Dagon."

Tar-Meena turned her head to the side, and the yellow spikes embedded along her temples sparkled beautifully. "Those who unlock this hidden path have proven themselves worthy to join the ranks of the Mythic Dawn cult. Finding the shrine is the first test. If you want to find them, you'll need all four volumes of the Commentaries."

"Where can I find these books?"

"Here," she said, handing him the book she had been reading previously. "You can have the library's copy of the second volume." He took it, letting it rest in his lap. "As I've said, I've never seen the third or fourth volumes." She did, however, write down the name of a bookstore in the Market district, handing him the slip of paper, and he took it without thinking.

"Thanks," he told the Argonian, standing up. She grinned at him, inhuman teeth showing.

"It was so nice chatting with you," she told him, making her way over to one of the bookshelves. "Be sure to let me know how your hunt for the Mythic Dawn turns out."

He smiled at her back, holding the now two books to his chest, and started heading back to Luther Broad's to see if Baurus would pay for a room tonight.

* * *

_Expect an update in the next two days, though if it's not tomorrow, then the chapter is probably longer than I want it to be (again). Oh, and as always, more info on my _**Bio**_. I would thank you for reading, but that just seems kind of stupid, though I will thank you for leaving a review on your way out. _

_Meh. I tried. _


	7. Chapter Six

"I need volumes three and four." Phintias looked at him, eyebrows furrowed at the interruption, and he got the feeling he wasn't getting any favors.

"I happen to have volume three on hand," Phintias started, words slow and calculated. "But I am afraid it is a special order. Already paid for by another customer. Sorry."

The Breton narrowed his eyes. "How much is he paying for it?" He questioned, starting to search for the small sack of money in his bag. "I bet I can top it."

Now those eyebrows were raised, and he just looked kind of amused. "I'm afraid that I can't tell you that. Customer discretion, and all."

He finally pulled the sack out, hearing the coins clink against each other. He knew Phintias could hear it, too, and was glad that Baurus had refused to leave him without any septims.

"Well," he compensated, setting the bag on the counter. "Do you think you could tell me who's buying volume three, at the very least?" When Phintias took too long to consider, he stressed the point. "I'll give you money! Just for a name. Don't you like money?"

The merchant had a snarky remark on the tip of his tongue, he was sure, but he took the whole bag nonetheless. The Breton wanted to object to that but it had already disappeared behind the counter, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to get it back either way.

Phintias finally faced him. "Again, I'm sorry I couldn't help you," he said, looking almost mournful. "Gwinas would be terribly disappointed if it was gone when he came to pick it up."

His attention spiked at the information. "Is this Gwinas coming to pick it up today, by any chance?"

Phintias just gave him an all-knowing look, gesturing to one of the seats in the back. He sighed, thanking him, and sat down in the corner.

He didn't know how long he had waited when Gwinas finally came, an elf in silky red robes and a generally snobbish expression. He watched the two talk for a moment, the precious velvet book being exchanged between them, and forced himself to wait until Gwinas had left.

Giving a pointed look at the store owner as he stood, he followed the elf outside. Not knowing exactly what to do at this point, he approached Gwinas, planting a smile on his face.

"Hello," he greeted, and the elf stopped to look at him. "Could I, um, have that book you're carrying?"

His features immediately morphed into an angry expression, the elf bristling as the request. "Have you been following me?" He demanded, not giving him the time to answer. "Leave me alone! That book is mine!"

He winced, the high-pitched voice murder to his ears. "Tell me about the Mythic Dawn cult," he decided, taking a different approach.

Gwinas seemed shocked at that. "The Mythic Dawn cult? Are you-" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about! I don't know anything about any cult."

He scowled. "Don't play stupid," he said, and the act dropped.

"Very well," Gwinas relented. "I can see you are familiar with Mankar Camoran's 'Commentaries.'" He waited for the elf to continue, which he did. "I know that daedric cults are not quite the thing socially, but that's just foolish prejudice and superstition. For the adventurous, open-minded thinker, daedric worship holds many rewards."

His fists clenched at the other's ignorance. "They killed the Emperor, you fool!" Several people looked their way but didn't comment, the elf's olive skin flushing pale at his words.

"What?" He spluttered, eyes twitching, and it probably would have been humorous were he in a better mood. "The Mythic Dawn were the ones-"

"Yes," he grit out, foot tapping impatiently.

"You have to believe me," he begged. "I truly had no idea. I mean, I knew they were a daedric cult. Mankar Camoran's views on Mehrunes Dagon are fascinating, revolutionary even- but to murder the Emperor? Mara preserve us!"

He needed to cut this short before some of the guards decided to eavesdrop. "Listen," he told Gwinas, who was starting to hyperventilate, aiming to calm him down. "Could I just have the book?"

"Yes, of course!" He exclaimed, all but shoving the volume in his face. He took it gingerly, tucking it under his arm as Gwinas kept speaking. "I don't want anyone to think I had anything to do with their insane plot."

He smiled then, going for a reassuring expression and testing how much he could push his luck. "I need the fourth book as well."

"You can only get volume four directly from a member of the Mythic Dawn," he informed the Breton, appearing regretful. "I had set up a meeting with the Sponsor, as he called himself."

He pulled out a slip of paper from one of the inside flaps of his elegant robe, handing it over. "Here, take this note they gave me," he explained. "It tells you where to go. I don't want anything else to do with the Mythic Dawn."

He unfolded the paper gently, only to be greeted by more words he couldn't read. The Breton tucked it into his pocket, looking up to say his thanks to the elf, but Gwinas had already been lost to the crowd.

* * *

He found Baurus leaning against some crates directly outside Luther Broad's, skillfully observing the area. The Blade sent him a wide smile as he approached, speaking first.

"You're not easy to get a hold of," he teased, coming closer. "What have you learned?"

"Um," he started, pulling out the note. "Why don't you take this?" He held it up to the Reguard, watching as his eyes scanned the paper swiftly.

"This just might be the break we were looking for," he told the other, irises bright from the afternoon sun. "Good work."

He nodded, not exactly on the same page, watching as a flame sparked between Baurus' fingers and caught on the paper. "We need to find the fourth book, then," he said, letting the ashy remains of the letter fall to the ground. "If Tar-Meena is right, we can use these books to locate the Mythic Dawn's hidden shrine."

He started walking down the road, calling behind his shoulder. "Let's go!" He ordered, and the Breton scrambled after him. In a quieter tone, Baurus added, "I know that part of the sewers well. Just follow me."

He frowned slightly but didn't comment, watching for where they were going. The Blade led him across the street and through a small alley, pausing at a concealed sewer grate. Baurus opened up the top and slipped down easily, helping the Breton down and closing the hatch back up.

The inside was dark and cold, sending a shiver down his spine. It was built like the sewers underneath the Imperial Prison, sharing the same scent, and he had to resist the sudden need to choke on the rotten air.

He had to grab the wall for support to descend the stairs, eyes still adjusting to the change of atmosphere. Baurus lit a flame in his hands, providing some light, and the Breton pulled some wood off of one of the broken crates in the corner to fashion as a torch.

It ignited brilliantly, flooding the space with a warm orange glow. He held the torch a small ways behind Baurus, letting the other lead them through the compacted halls. They came across a couple of mudcrabs guarding the next room, the Blade killing them swiftly and heading on through the dungeon.

It continued like this for a little while, the only serious enemies being a few goblins, and the Breton was sure to grab one of their steel bows to replace his own rusty iron one. Baurus didn't seem to be tiring and he had only needed to step in and help a few times, his pockets gradually filling with gold found in miscellaneous chests along the way.

They finally stopped, journey ending outside a large iron door placed near a set of stairs. Baurus turned to him, voice low.

"Alright," he said, seemingly bracing himself for something. "The room with the table is just through this door. I always wondered who put it there."

He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes, assuming this is where the Sponsor had set up the meeting. "I happen to know that if you go up the stairs there, you can get a vantage point on the meeting room."

He waited patiently for Baurus to get to his point, listening for something yet unsaid. "I think I'd better be the one to handle the meeting," he admitted. "You'll be my back-up. Keep watch from above in case of trouble."

"Are you sure?" He asked, squinting as the torch light flickered measly, flame getting lost in dead wood. He had the feeling that Baurus wore a somewhat determined expression.

"Yes, it should be me," he answered, tone solemn. "I have a blood debt to repay those Mythic Dawn assassins. Besides, I've trained for this kind of thing my whole life."

He knew the feeling of having an obligation; the reason he was even here was because the Amulet of Kings had been stolen on his account. "Alright," the Breton agreed. "I'll cover you."

"Good," was the reply, and he sounded relieved. "Remember, we must not leave here without the book. It's our best chance of finding the Amulet."

"I'm ready when you are." Baurus took a deep breath.

"Listen. I may not survive this. But if I don't, you must. You must recover the book and find the Amulet of Kings."

He was a little surprised at the serious tone to Baurus' voice, of the trust. He wanted to tell the other about how he messed up, he really did, but it wasn't the time nor place.

He sighed. "I understand," he told the other, a little warmness creeping into his words. "We'll do this together."

"I'm glad to have you at my side," Baurus said, and the sentence made his heart skip a beat. "Okay. Let's go."

Baurus gave him a pat on the back as he headed out the door, the Breton in turn sending him a grin and climbing up the stairs. He opened the door as quietly as possible, stepping cautiously onto the walkway and kneeling in the corner. It was only Baurus at the small table, face illuminated by the single candle, and he sent the Blade a wave when he was sure he was in his line of vision. He received a nod in return, Baurus taking a seat on a hard wooden chair.

The Breton pulled the bow out of his bag as they waited, lining up the assortment of arrows he had collected in his brief travels. He stared at the bow with a sort of reserved wonder- he knew enough about the object to know how to hold it and how to shoot, but he was yet to grasp the aiming bit.

He only shrugged, grasping it in his hands and notching an arrow. The Breton waited in his position, heat racing in his chest, and he started to wish that Martin hadn't demanded that he leave his daedric greatsword at the temple. He had decided long ago that there was something reassuring about the weapon, even if it burned his hands every time he tried to wield it, and he just felt oddly disconnected without it.

The screeching of a rusty gate sounded against the silence, eyes darting to the scene below. A tall robed figure made his way to where Baurus was sitting, voice too low for him to hear. Only the Sponsor spoke, Baurus keeping his mouth firmly closed, and he faintly wondered what that note had said in the first place.

His thoughts broke as he let out a scream, a spike of ice becoming impaled into his side, the force of it knocking him over the walkway. It was made of pure Magicka, disappearing in a few seconds along with the pain, but the sudden attack left him blinking in a daze on the ground. He distinctly saw Baurus with his katana, swiping at the Sponsor with practiced ease, and heard the other two come into the room through the other passage.

The Breton forced himself to stand, miraculously only sporting an aching back, and found himself being confronted by an angry assassin. Thinking quickly, having left his arrows above in the hasty departure, he whacked the approaching enemy with the bow in his hands. The killer stumbled backwards in surprise, and he took the moment to whip out his dagger and stab the figure in the heart. He held back disgust as it crumbled to the floor, turning towards Baurus, who had finished the second intruder and was currently in battle with the Sponsor.

He crouched behind the assassin, trying to blend into the darkness. He didn't know if it actually worked, but he was able to get close enough to deliver the final blow. The elven blade dug into soft flesh and rough fabric, he and Baurus the only ones standing.

"There's three more that won't be returning to their master," Baurus snickered, and the Breton agreed, leaning down to search the Sponsor. There was a glowing ring on his corpse that intrigued him but he couldn't muster the courage to take it, only pulling out the last book from his robe and a strange looking key.

He stood, facing Baurus with a silly grin on his face, seeing the Blade wear the same expression. "We did it!" He exclaimed, any lingering injuries gone from his mind, being replaced by excitement.

They shared a laugh in the empty room, littered with the dead bodies of evil beings, and it was probably the first sound of merriment to echo in the halls for ages.

* * *

"The holy book of the Mythic Dawn," Tar-Meena said, and she sounded in absolute awe. "Supposedly written by Mehrunes Dagon himself."

"How can I find the Mythic Dawn shrine?"

She took the book gingerly from his fingers, and he let her, curious. "I understand that you are not skilled in literature," she admitted, and he had to fight down the embarrassment. "I could study this volume, see if I can find any hidden clues that might reveal the shrine's location."

He beamed at her, going through his bag and collecting the rest of the books. She took them all with ease, giving him a farewell before leaving to her study.

It was a long bath and several days later when they spoke again, the Argonian sending someone to fetch him. Tar-Meena looked a little worse for wear, probably not having slept in the past days, but he couldn't say he fared much better. There had been stories going through the city of more gates to Oblivion turning up, and he had been loosing hours over the thought.

She sent him a large smile when their eyes met, and it did some to calm his nerves. "I've been studying these volumes tremendously," she told him, a certain glint in her red irises he couldn't place. "Now, if you look at the first letter in each paragraph, they spell out a hidden message. I've only recently figured out what it says, but I haven't had much time to decipher its meaning."

"That's fine," he reassured, thrilled at the prospect of making progress. "What's the message?"

She wrote as she spoke, and it was a fruitless gesture, but thoughtful all the same. "Green Emperor Way Where Tower Touches Midday Sun," she declared, handing him the paper. He took it in his hands, quizzical.

"Are you familiar with Green Emperor Way?" He nodded, remembering the lush gardens and ancient gravestones surrounding a pristine tower. "Perhaps something is revealed there at noon?"

He sighed through his nose at the mystery, but smiled nonetheless. "Thank you for all your help," he told her, considering. "Listen, I don't really have any use for the books anymore. Why don't you keep them?"

She stiffened. "Are you sure?" Tar-Meena questioned, seeming reluctant and yet joyous and the idea.

He stood up from the bench, shaking her hand. "I'm sure. It's been an honor, Tar-Meena."

She stood up, too, reciprocating the gesture. "And with you." Realizing something, she fixed him with an apologetic gaze. "I'm sorry, I never learned your name."

The smile turned a little sad on his face. "Yeah, neither did I," he told her, heading out the door with the hopes of fixing his mistakes.


	8. Chapter Seven

The cavern was dark, smelling foul, cold atmosphere chilling his bones. He looked around nervously, wearing his nice and shiny Kvatch armor, sharpened elven dagger at his hip.

He saw the first person right near the entrance, standing guard at a sturdy wooden door. The Breton readied to sneak up on the robed man like he had been practicing for weeks, only to realize he had already been spotted. At least, if the narrowed set of eyes watching his every move was anything to go by.

So much for the practice.

The Breton walked up slowly, seeing that he wasn't being attacked on sight. He was a little lost to be honest, and still surprised that he was even able to find the shrine without help. He knew that the best way to go through this was to go undercover, but the chance of him passing for an assassin seemed pretty bleak. It was shocking he made it this far, actually.

The man spoke first, heavy velvet hood obscuring his face, voice deep. "Dawn is breaking," he said, and the Breton didn't really know what to do with that.

"Greet the new day," he tried, hands ready to pull out his dagger. When the only reply he received was a warm smile he calmed, making a mental note to stop by and thank Tar-Meena for all the help. Especially if he wouldn't have to be fighting his way through this place like he anticipated.

"Welcome, brother," the man said, the same glimpse of a smile peeking out through his robe. "The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands."

Nearly all of that went over his head. Was it necessary to talk in riddles? Maybe this was how the Mythic Dawn spoke on regular basis. Well, that was nice.

"You may pass into the shrine," he continued, luckily oblivious to the Breton's silent musings. "Brother Harrow will take you to the Master for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon." Gloved fingers pulled out a polished key from within the robe, and the man moved to unlock the door.

"Do not tarry," he warned, watching as the Breton only stared at the passage. "The time of Preparation is almost over. The time of Cleansing is near."

He nodded, moving through the tunnel, trying not to be alarmed when the door closed behind him. Someone was waiting for him in front of another dirty banner, baring the same insignia as the others; a sun just rising from the horizon, portrayed in threaded crimson and pale yellow.

"I am Brother Harrow, warden of the Shrine of Dagon," he introduced. The candles near the banner lit up the small area, bringing a dangerous glint to his Dunmeri eyes. Locks of long black hair rested on Harrow's shoulders, unbound by the usual hood, and the Breton found himself having to raise his head so his eyes would meet the other's.

"Hello," he said, testing his luck. "I've come to serve Lord Dagon." Harrow nodded in acknowledgment, letting the smallest upturn of lips grace his features.

"By following the path of Dawn," he began, keeping a cool and even tone. "You have earned a place amongst the Chosen. You have arrived at an opportune time. You may have the honor to be initiated into the Order by the Master himself."

He tried to express his surprise, but he felt something more akin to fear flow through his veins, icy like poison, and he couldn't really figure out why.

"As a member of the Mythic Dawn," Harrow continued, observing him closely. "Everything you need will be provided for you by the Master's bounty. Give me your possessions, and put on this initiate's robe."

His eyes widened at the request. "Uh, no. I don't think so." Harrow raised his eyebrows, features developing a ghost of a scowl.

"What?" He asked, voice hard. "I must warn you, no one leaves this place who does not bind himself to the service of Lord Dagon." He seemed to force his face to take up a smile, calculating and threatening even so. "But I'm sure you will reconsider. You have proved yourself worthy and dedicated to have come this far."

The Breton watched warily as he held out the other set of robes, collar golden and size too large. "I ask you one last time; give me your possessions. The Master requires it of all the initiates."

He sighs, finally, before taking the enchanted bag from his shoulders. They traded, the material of the robe feeling rough against his hands. Harrow turned so that he could undress unseen, and he managed to slip his elven dagger in one of the robe's folds.

"Very good," he finally said, Harrow holding his Kvatch armor in his arms, and the Breton automatically felt a million times more vulnerable. "Follow me. I will take you to the shrine."

They left through the door ahead, closer to the Amulet of Kings with each step.

* * *

He descended the row of stone stairs, floor cold under his bare feet. A voice was speaking in the main chamber room, merely a silhouette in the shadows of flames, words escaping the farthest reaches of his hearing.

There was a small gathering of the Mythic Dawn at the base of the chamber, a beam of pure light set right on the talking figure of Mankar Camoran. The Breton couldn't make out his face from below, only seeing the stainless blue robe that he wore, but his speech made itself apparent as they drew closer.

"Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters," he was saying, voice haughty and proud. "Great shall be their reward in Paradise!"

"Praise be!" They all chanted, but he stayed silent, waiting.

"Hear now the words of Lord Dagon," Camoran declared once the echoes had resided, and his followers tensed. "'When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward; to be set above all other mortals forever. As for the rest; the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pay for pardon.'"

"So sayeth Lord Dagon," they chanted, uneven yet strong. "Praise be."

"Your reward, Brothers and Sisters! The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of Dawn!" He desperately watched as Camoran backed off from the pedestal, itching to march up in his oversized robes and take what he came for. However, he liked to believe that he wasn't an idiot, and he could easily see how that situation would not play out in his favor.

The sweetest kind of shimmering took up the silence, a ray of gold humming into existence. Through this light, he caught a glimpse of the goal of his endeavors, hanging proud and ruby red from Mankar Camoran's neck- just as he disappeared into the portal of gold and into Paradise.

* * *

"Advance, initiate," she called from the top of the steps. He followed, rather reluctantly, meeting her olive skin and mischievous eyes.

Everyone was watching him now, their attention drawn to a peak. He nearly tripped on his own clothes on the way up, hands invisible from inside the long sleeves, and his primary thought for a few moments concerned the too large size of everything he seemed to wear.

The elf looked at him calmly, aiming the warmest of smiles to their intruder, just as he noticed the naked Argonian chained under a likeliness of Mehrunes Dagon. It wasn't exactly the most welcoming sights to behold, that was for sure, as his stomach churned uncomfortably.

"You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service," she said, not realizing how wrong she was. "This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies."

He glanced again at the prisoner, knocked unconscious for all to see. "Take up the dagger," she continued. "Offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life's blood, which shall be his in the end."

"I will slay the sacrifice," he lied, and she only grinned wider, urging him on.

The Breton made his way to the pedestal behind her, and she let him pass, shoulders brushing briefly. The knife was there, sure enough, crafted from flawless silver and engraved with beautiful designs, but he couldn't bring himself to notice it. No; his eyes were drawn to the object beside it, perched ever so innocently on the stone table.

It was a book, dirty and torn at, crumbling at its own existence. He was almost afraid to touch it, but he did anyway, the tip of his forefinger making contact with the dusty cover. Everything just sort of blurred into the background, hands trembling as they shakily opened the first page, and he couldn't bring himself to question why he cared.

There were symbols, symbols that should've meant nothing, symbols that bent at his will to form words he shouldn't have been able to read. They were screaming in his head, singing in his ears, and he recognized the words of Dagon on the very first page, spoken by Camoran just moments ago. But there was more, so much more- how could the Master have not seen it?

"_Of bold Oblivion fire who finds you, for Lord Dagon forever reborn in blood and fire from the waters of Oblivion_." He was murmuring now, just under his breath, but he couldn't help it. It was so beautiful, beautiful like the ash the falls on the mountains of the Deadlands, beautiful like the scent of blood in the air, beautiful like the crimson grass that blooms under a sky of fire-

"Initiate," she calls him, voice like the rudest awakening that he could have ever felt. He jolts, book closing in the action, turning around to face the Altmer who was suddenly too close.

"That item is for our Master's hands only," she admonishes, glaring under her hood. But he doesn't really care, not truly. Her approval only seems even more invalid when there's a slit cut across her throat, body falling to the ground.

He doesn't know how fast he's running after that or even where he's going- he only knows that the way he came in is blocked, and how the book folds perfectly into his arms. The falling statue diverted a lot of attention, enough for him to escape the chamber room, but he feels bad that there isn't sufficient time to morn the death of an innocent.

Maybe later. When the book is safe... when he is safe. Priorities.

He travels through the tunnels, looking for someplace to hide. The Breton finds security in the first available spot, sliding under one of the beds crammed into a branching living room. He holds his breath as the Mythic Dawn catch up, bending his body to fit under the furniture and for once proud of his sickly physique.

It's only about two or three that actually enter, the agents making up the shrine splitting in groups, and he starts to realize just how much trouble he has gotten himself into. Only one sticks around, abandoning the others to search, and he knows he only has a little while until he's found out.

When the Breton comes out from the bed to be greeted to a pleasant surprise, Harrow being the only other occupant in the room. He grabs his elven dagger and stabs blindly in the man's back, watching as the assassin falls. Without wasting time he reclaims his bag and armor, tucked safely into Harrow's clothes, swinging it all over his shoulders.

The Breton searches the room for anything else that may prove useful, finding a few potion bottles scattered around the desks. He downs one instantly to reclaim some energy, moving to put the others in his bag, only to find out he has gone invisible.

"Well," the Breton murmurs, impressed. "This could be fun." He continues on through the dimly lit tunnels, trying to find his escape.

* * *

Harsh winds whistle through the snowcapped mountains, hooves pounding on the trail winding up to Cloud Ruler Temple. He's infinitely glad that he took one of the horses for the journey so long ago; the Breton doesn't think he would have been able to escape if he hadn't. Well, at least he knows that the invisibility potions don't last forever.

The chestnut steed makes it to the top, coming to a halt just before a pair of stone doors. He recites the practiced knock from before, instantly being greeted by Blades. One of them takes his horse away, directing him to the main hall in the temple.

A warm sensation settles deep in his bones as he makes his way inside, closing the doors gently behind him. The hall is huge, walls made of strong oak and braziers bristling with stoked fires. The Breton's eyes roam across multiple silk banners before settling on Martin, making his way over.

The priest is sitting at one of the tables closer to the fireplace, hands flipping anxiously through a book. The Imperial doesn't take notice of him, even as he sits down, and he clears his throat nervously.

Martin's head snaps up, blue eyes meeting his own, and he breaks out into a smile. "Ah, you're back," he beams, setting the book down. "I told Jauffre not to worry."

"Yeah," he answers, voice hollow, and Martin gives him a small frown.

"I can see you have bad news," he remarks. "You didn't recover the amulet, did you?"

"No," he admits, bringing out his bag. He lays it on the table, shuffling through the contents. Slender fingers finally grasp at the prize, pulling out the tattered novel. "But I found this."

Martin's jaw goes slack. "The Mysterium Xarxes?" His voice is quiet while the Breton just looks down, pondering the name. A series of Commentaries, just for this broken, withering thing? That was kind of pathetic. Which was, of course, why he had stumbled his way through a mob of blood-thirsty assassins for it.

Martin's next words break through his reflections, too loud and angry. "By the Nine!" He shouts, and the Breton can _feel_ the wandering eyes traveling over to the scene. "Such a thing is dangerous even to handle!"

He shrinks back into his torn at Mythic Dawn robe, just a little, reminded of the Imperial sewers and the Blades' heavy words as they readied themselves to kill him. Well, it was refreshing to know he was still the same coward as he was a few weeks ago.

Martin observes him, expression apologetic. "Forgive me," he says, much softer. "You were right to bring it. But you'd better give it to me. I know some ways to protect myself from its evil power."

He reaches out calloused hands, then, waiting for the book, and the Breton would be lying if he said he didn't want to refuse. It was as if the Xarxes were screaming at him, urging him to thrust his dagger into Martin's throat, just to keep all their precious knowledge to himself-

The book goes into Martin's hands and out of his, and that's that. Martin seems pleased, giving him a small nod as he tucks the object away, and the Breton tries not to feel crestfallen at the act.

"So," he tries, feeble. "Can the Xarxes lead us to Camoran?"

Martin sighs, considering the question. "I don't know," he eventually decided. "Maybe." He waits for the priest to continue, which he does. "I suspect that the secret of how to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise lies within these pages. But I will need time. Tampering with dark secrets, even just reading them, can be very dangerous," and doesn't he know it? "I'll have to proceed carefully."

"You know you can do this, right?" He asks, aiming to sound convincing. "If anyone can save the world, it's you, really."

"I really appreciate that," he says, tones the sweetest they could possibly be, and the Breton warms up just a little bit more. "Thank you." Martin smiles, just a little, but he thinks that it's enough.


	9. Chapter Eight

He stood alone in the woods, snow crunching under his boots. The leaves rustled from the gentle breeze, creating the only sound in the serene atmosphere. He glanced overhead, watching as the glimmering stars began to fade away into the slowly coming dawn.

The Breton sighed through his nose, sliding down against the rock and taking a seat. The stone at his back hummed with a kind of power he couldn't comprehend, carved with glowing blue symbols that he couldn't read, and he sighed again.

"You know," he muttered. "If they're any agents or anything out there, feel free join me." He received no answer as anticipated, only silence.

The Breton slid even further down, laying on the snow like an armored starfish. It was probably a strange sight, and extremely stupid, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He pulled his hands up to his face, wiggling his fingers. They were thin and pale, nails too long, and it was kind of disgusting. Narrowing his eyes, the Breton tried to summon a ball of fire, not too surprised when all he received for his troubles were a few half-hearted sparks.

He let his arms fall to his sides, squinting up at the sky. His mouth moved in an attempt to whistle, also failing horribly, and his features darkened into a scowl.

The Breton simply didn't understand the importance of this mission. So what if there were spies? It's not like they could eavesdrop on all of the Blades' top-secret conversations from the bottom of this mountain. Really, he could barely see the Temple as it were! And why him, if this was so important? Jauffre _has_ seen him, right? He was weak.

Well, except for that Oblivion thing. That was kind of epic. But still.

What was he still doing here, though? Was it an obligation to Jauffre? The man had done an awful lot for him; taking the Breton under his wing, writing a pardon on his behalf for whatever, non-documented crimes he had committed. Jauffre was the reason he could wander around the Imperial City freely, and probably why he was still alive.

Still, that didn't feel like it. After all, this work was rough, and though he technically wasn't considered a Blade, he was nonetheless sent out for this mission. He was still being included in the defense against the Oblivion Crisis. He was still a part of all this, and _this_ was downright terrifying. And it wasn't for the free food.

Maybe it was because he had nothing to loose. But he also didn't have anything to gain...

"_Take with you my blessings and the hope of the empire_."

Oh, that was it. Guilt. Guilt for the Amulet of Kings, and damn Uriel Septim and his dying wishes.

Of course.

He straightened up at the smallest noise, vision focusing a little ways ahead. The Breton stood quickly, hands on his blade. He stepped forward as quietly as possible, squinting into the darkness, and yelped as a shape came out.

The bunny looked up at him with gorgeous blue eyes that reminded him of Martin, scuttling away. He breathed in relief, shoulders sagging, and a frown adorned his lips. It quickly turned into a grimace as the arrow struck his shoulder, opening old scars and ripping through his Kvatch cuirass.

The Breton turned in shock, barely managing to dodge the next arrow. He pulled out his dagger, running towards the Mythic Dawn agent.

The agent aimed again, this time for his stomach, and he swiftly ducked behind the glowing stone. Wincing in pain, he gripped the arrow shaft, thanking the Nine it wasn't too deep. He pulled the offending object out of his skin, burying the whimper down his throat, before running at the enemy once more.

The agent had ditched the bow and instead clutched a sword in their hands, the weapon emitting Magicks in the way he knew summoned items did. It swung at him and he stumbled back, nearly tripping on the cluster of rocks behind. Regaining his balance, he dodged another blow, and leaped at the enemy.

They both crashed down on the ground, the summoned weapon disappearing as soon as it left its owners hands. He took the moment of surprise to lodge his knife in the other's stomach, not pulling it out until the enemy had gone still.

He got up, sheathing his weapon. A hand went out to prod at his shoulder, flinching at the sting. Keeping a watchful look out, he began the trek back to Cloud Ruler Temple.

* * *

It was a couple bandages, one healing potion and some uncalled for rudeness later that he found himself in Bruma. The town itself was simply amazing, with cozy homes and snow-topped roofs, complete with an extravagant chapel for a Divine he didn't recognize. It was beautiful in all the ways that the Imperial City wasn't, sloppy and small and cold yet perfect on its own.

He eyed Jearl's house, holding its key in his palm. He didn't know how he felt about killing someone and breaking into their home, but it wasn't a very good emotion. Wasn't the fact that she was an assassin supposed to serve as a consolation? And he had gotten permission from the Bruma guard captain...

Nope, still felt horrible.

Mentally scolding himself, he shoved the key through the entrance, wrestling with the rusty lock for a second before prying it open. The door slammed shut behind him involuntarily, causing him to flinch as he was left alone in the darkness.

No, not alone. What was that? "Hello?" He walked forward a few feet, looking around. "Anyone here?"

The response came immediately after, a shard of ice whizzing by his head. He nearly screamed, insanely grateful that his attacker was a terrible shot, looking fruitlessly for the enemy. The offender came barreling out of the shadows, wielding a wicked-looking longsword and taking a swing at him.

The Breton actually did scream this time, toppling over onto the floor. He crawled backwards, rolling under the kitchen table in the middle of the room. The furniture was thrown over, steel sword heading for his chest, and he just managed to scramble out of the way.

He pulled out his stained elven dagger, pushing it into the agent's ankle from his position. The gasp that followed was female, and he made another blow in the spot just above the knee.

The woman fell down, weapon rolling out of her hands. He kicked it further away, trying to make the stab to his attacker's neck as quick as possible. When it was done, he collapsed as far away as he could from the corpse, breathing heavily.

Second death today, by his hands. The thought was enough to make him sick, waves of anxiety building up in his chest and threatening to burst. Pushing the feeling away, he cautiously stood, making an effort not to look at the dead assassin.

The Breton began his search for some kind of chest, anything that looked valuable enough to hide the Mythic Dawn's deepest secrets. When nothing of the sort proved to be in the room, he unhappily moved to check the corpse, looking to see if she bore any clue.

He warily searched through all the pockets and folds of the woman's ragged clothes, finding nothing. He started to turn her over, carpet pulling up at the action, and his vision caught onto a square of wood that didn't match the rest of the floor. Dragging the body away, he folded back the corner of the carpet, fully revealing the trap door.

Pulling out the one other key he had found on Jearl's body, he inserted it into the lock, smiling victoriously in spite of himself when it clicked open. It was a fairly easy squeeze, boots touching the barrel right beneath the secret door.

He unceremoniously plopped down onto the precisely laid crates, standing shakily as he took in the dimly lit room. It was small, an extra bed tucked into the corner and a plush carpet covering stones. The only source of light came from a flickering torch, placed next to a large oak table littered with books and across an additional door.

The Breton walked over, concentrating all his might in his fingers, and a single flame sparked to life. He quickly moved it to the dying torch before it could go out, and new light was welcomed into the space.

He basked in the small victory for a moment, eventually turning his attention to the table. The books turned out to be additional copies of the Commentaries, all velvet with fancy script, and he made a face. The large scroll placed next to them was new, however, and he shoved it in his pack without a second thought.

After another quick search of the room, finding the door leading out to empty caves he really didn't feel like exploring, the Breton made his way back to the entrance. It was harder getting up then down, climbing onto the large crates and having to reopen the trap door. He finally made it out, leaving the now empty house behind.

* * *

"What have you found out about the spies?" The question was terse and anxious, and the Breton got the feeling that Jauffre hadn't been getting too much sleep again.

"Both of them are dead," he offered. Jauffre nodded, approving.

"Good work," he said. "I had a feeling I could count on you for this mission." He looked like he wanted to say more but the Breton knew he wouldn't, instead choosing to pull out the scroll from before.

"Uh, here," he said, giving it to the other. Jauffre gave him a confused expression, so he elaborated. "I found it in a kind of basement in one of the spy's homes. I, um, haven't read it yet."

Jauffre nodded again, sending a distracted farewell as he went his way. The Breton just kind of watched his retreating figure, shoulders slumped. He was thinking about heading to outside for some more training with Baurus when Martin waved him over, urgency written on his features.

The Breton walked to Martin's table, taking his seat across from the heir. Those blue eyes were sparkling with a weird mixture of excitement and horror, and he felt his curiosity grow. He leaned in closer almost subconsciously, the Breton copying the movement.

"I've deciphered part of the ritual needed to open a portal to Camoran's Paradise," he began, voice barely above a whisper. "The Xarxes mentioned four items needed for the ritual, but so far I have only deciphered one of them: the 'blood of a Daedra Lord'. In fact, daedric artifacts are known to be formed from the essence of a Daedric Lord, from where they derive their great power."

He held up a hand, trying to make sense of the wave of new information. "Okay," he started out, warily. "You need a what? Daedric artifact?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "And it would be preferred if you were the one to get it."

He tilted his head. "Uh, me?" Martin made a consenting noise.

"If you could. I mean," he paused. "Well, I trust you to be able to do it. It's okay if you refuse, as you aren't inclined to help-"

"I'll do it." He didn't know what spurred him on to say that, but he also wasn't about to take it back, especially when Martin smiled a grin so full of happiness at his answer.

"Now," he spoke. "I understand if you aren't too familiar with the subject. I do have a book that can help." He gestured to the object beside them, looking pristine and well-kept on the table.

The Breton felt his hope go spiraling into his stomach. "Maybe you could just tell me where to find an artifact?" Martin considered for a moment, finally sighing deeply.

"You have your map?" The Breton nodded, pulling out the torn piece of paper. He was actually mildly surprised he still had it, all in one piece.

Martin took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it open. He observed it for a moment, thinking, before taking a nearby quill and marking down something on the map. He handed it back reluctantly, and something in his expression told the Breton not to push.

"Thanks," he spoke, taking the paper. He stood, saying bye to Martin, and headed to the west wing for some rest before his newest mission.

The next time he woke up was deep into night, but as good of a time as any. He had something quick to eat before taking off on one of the stable horses, coat a deep chocolate that looked black in the dark.

He pulled back on the reins once they were at the bottom of the mountain, taking out the torch he had scrambled together from one of the trees nearby. He lit it with a snap of his fingers, bringing it to his map.

It was near one of the towns that he didn't know how to read or pronounce; that one that was next to Kvatch? Shrugging, he set his horse in the right direction, leading them by the light of his fire.

The journey took around a day, and it would have been much longer if Martin hadn't made some potions for his horse. Just one taste of the mystery substance and his steed seemed to become incredibly fast, racing past mountains and snow as they became trees and grassy fields.

By the time they had reached the shrine, the horizon was hazy with the beginnings of dawn. He was only awake because of multiple potions, his horse shaking as it stood. He dismounted quickly, deciding to hike for the remainder of the journey.

The statue was nestled by large pine trees and boulders, pedestal standing on hard-packed mud and clumps of weeds. It was much too huge for him to take in, chiseled features worn with age. The Breton instead focused on the small gathering of followers at the base of the statue, stumbling around and speaking loudly with words slurred.

He was approached by the one in robes, an elf with a lazy smile. His footsteps were imprecise and actions slow, breath smelling of brandy when he spoke.

"Have you come to revel in the glory that is the shrine of Sanguine?" He questioned, and the Breton mentally cheered upon finding out he was in the right place. Nodding quickly, he managed an answer.

"Of course," he replied. "What can you tell me about this place?"

The elf fixed him with a wavering look, thinking so hard that it looked like he was in pain. It faded into another carefree grin, eyes fogged with ecstasy. "It is a place of celebration for us," he explained. "We dance, we make love. Would you speak to Sanguine?"

"Uh, yeah," he got out, reeling from the unnecessary information. How did Martin even know where this place was, anyway? "I will speak to Sanguine."

He seemed content with the answer. "Approach then, and bring Sanguine a gift. Some Cyrodilic brandy is an appropriate gift for your host." The elf wandered off to the other followers, flashing a seemingly _inviting_ look over his shoulder, and the Breton blanched in disgust. Only satisfied when there was enough distance between them, he reached in for the drink that Martin had given him before he had departed, questioning the former priest's knowledge once more.

The Breton slowly ambled up to the shrine, mindful of the daedric longsword strapped to his back and hoping the others were, too. There didn't seemed to be any issue as he placed the brandy at the statue's feet, kneeling down on the dirt with his head bowed.

He didn't know how long he waited for something to happen, potions taking their toll as time caught up. The presence wafted into his head in the most intimate kind of way he could have imagined, taking apart his mind and coiling around his heart. He gasped as it spoke with a voice deep and intoxicating, eyelids snapping closed all on their own.

"_Another mortal come to beg Sanguine to add another bit of spice to an otherwise drab existence_." He stayed rigid, intimidated by the pure power of the presence, letting it wander into his darkest thoughts and strongest emotions without struggle. "_I would have you perform a service for Me_."

He didn't think he could speak if he wanted to. It was like the first sip of Skooma, getting you hooked as soon as you let the drink touch your lips. You hated it when you could think again but the temptation was greater, drawing you in and having you give up the fight, just for a little bit more.

He needed that little bit more.

"_The Castle Leyawiin is a dull, dreary place. The mistress is an especially somber soul, and tomorrow she will hold another excruciating dinner party_." He agreed with every single word the presence told him, knowing it all. Of course, how dare she? Life should be about party, excitement- that was all there was.

He felt the presence spark something deep inside him, leaving his Magicks pumping harder in his blood with knowledge and newfound strength. "_I want you to liven it up_," Sanguine declared, and he knew he would never refuse. "_Use this spell on the Countess and her guests. It should make the party much more interesting. You should probably try to be inconspicuous. Or they might kill you. Oh, and the party is by invitation only. You'll have to find a way in_."

It left all so suddenly with a farewell he didn't hear, drawing away from his disgusting mortal body and leaving him shocked on the ground. He blinked vigorously, raising his palm, and he watched as a hearty flame was ignited in his hands. He held it longer than he had ever been able to, watching it grow and shrink on will, freezing over into wisps of frost and disappearing as a flash of lightning.

And all he could do was stare up at the statue of Sanguine, power buzzing in his ears.

* * *

The ride to Leyawiin was longer, using less of the mystery potion so he still had some for the long ride home. He had to stop by Bravil, the shabbiest little town he could have imagined, whole area smelling foul and Skooma dealers assaulting him at every turn. He was glad it was only for a night, grabbing a blessing from the bronze statue in town in hopes of carrying a little luck for what he was about to do.

He didn't know what to think of Leyawiin when he finally did arrive. It was nowhere near as small and sad as Bravil, but also carried its own drabness. The clouds were thick and grey, air carrying the scent of the sea, the buildings a mix of log cabins and tall towers. Every now and then he would find a sprout of lavender, adding a splash of color to the otherwise dark atmosphere.

He pushed his way through the big oak doors of Castle Leyawiin, checking with one of the guards for the time. Only a little late, the Breton hurried through the majestic halls, keeping his head down.

He went down to the right, seeing the throne empty. A particularly burly looking guard was watching him cautiously, eyes narrowing under his helmet as the Breton came over.

He didn't get a chance to speak before the guard was barraging him with questions. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Uh," he started off brilliantly, suddenly too aware of his dirty cuirass and muddy boots, wishing that he had taken the time some point in his seemingly short life to glance in a mirror. "I'm here for the dinner party."

The guard seemed to be recognizing all of his poor features, too. "You don't look like one of the party guests," he remarked. "I don't remember you being on the list."

"What?" He faked the surprise, but the guard didn't seem impressed. Losing hope, he poured more effort into his words. "I'm a party guest. Why wouldn't I be?"

The other blinked, as if in a daze, and something just seemed to _click_. "Yes, of course," he agreed. "My apologies. Go right in."

He nodded, trying to keep up the illusion until he had passed. The Magicka seemed to falter a little as he dropped it, puzzled. It definitely was part of Sanguine's strange blessing, whatever the Daedra had done- but wow, he hadn't known that using Magicks like that was so amazing.

Feeling only a little guilty about the deception, he opened the door, closing it softly behind him. The room was basked in a soft golden glow, the same light extended to all the other guests. Delighted murmurs took up the space, creating a comforting background noise, only jarred by the sounds of forks clacking and chairs scraping the floor. It was the first time he had seen a group of truly happy people.

He made his way to the corner of the room, nobody paying him much mind. He took out the scroll he had found on the way to Leyawiin, left in his bag by a certain Daedric Lord, holding it in delicate fingers.

The Breton made sure that he still wasn't spotted, heading over to the side hall. Deciding to get this over with quickly, he hid behind the walls, opening the scroll. The blast of power forced itself from his hands, finding the Countess, and he had to close his eyes as everything erupted into green.

The sight that welcomed him back was the strangest one yet, the group of guests running around the room in nothing but their underclothes. He didn't quite know who to thank for that small miracle as opposed to being completely naked, and he also supposed it was better than instant death, but it wasn't the best thing that could've happened.

He swiftly slid under the bed as the guards came in, he himself missing his Kvatch armor and bag. Whatever blessing Sanguine had given him had passed, as if a way of saying he was on his own now. The Breton frowned, squeezing his skinny frame under the furniture, feeling emptier without his sword.

It seemed like a good idea, seeing as he wouldn't be able to charm his way out of this situation when the guards realized he wasn't on the list- and they _would_ realize. The Countess was absolutely furious, pretty features marred by age and anger. He hid for what seemed like ages, blending in with the tiny crowd when they were told to clear out.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep the laugh from escaping his lips, especially as he rode off on his borrowed horse right under their noses. If this was Sanguine, lowering the snotty people to everyone else's level, he couldn't imagine the Daedra being too bad. Especially if they brightened up what was left of the slowly crumbling world.

The laughter turned quiet, eyes softening with sadness, and the start of a storm came rushing over his head.


	10. Chapter Nine

His horse had nearly collapsed in front of the gates, trembling in the pouring rain. The Blades quickly took it to shelter, some of them throwing concerned glances his way, and he was almost appreciative of the worry. Almost.

He leaned heavily on the Sanguine Rose, eventually sliding down the walls protecting the temple. The Breton waved off the guards, tired but unscathed. The staff fell beside him with a loud thud, the rose at its top glowing with power, petals soft and delicate against his skin.

He had traveled three days, or what felt like three days, after running out of Martin's potion. Cyrodiil had chosen to be particularly unhelpful, showering him with storms throughout the journey. It wasn't very fun, and the damn staff he had worked so hard to get did pretty much nothing, so he thought he deserved a little moment to himself.

The Breton eventually stood, stumbling over to the entrance. His inner-thighs burned like the air of Oblivion as a result of riding on horseback for days at a time, making camp only once. He seriously needed to start reevaluating his life choices.

Iron boots pounded unevenly against hard oak floors, doors closing behind him, and he let out a sigh of relief. He immediately made his way to the fireplace at the end of the main hall, settling down in an attempt to warm up.

His armor had been hastily thrown on, not completely adjusted correctly. Of course, he hadn't exactly gotten the hang of putting on armor, sometimes getting help from one of the Blades, but it was worse than usual. Strands of hair were stuck to his forehead, darkened by the rain, and the greatsword at his back seemed colder than usual.

Hearing the sound of someone entering, he turned his head. Martin was there, blue eyes glimmering brightly under locks of brown. The Breton felt a surge of happiness he couldn't quite place, staring up at the priest as he made his way over.

Martin sat down next to him on the floor, straightening out his robe. The other just watched, shivering barely under his Kvatch cuirass.

"It's good you came back," Martin finally said. "We were worried about you." He gazed into the roaring fire, flames lazily eating away at the logs.

"Worried?" He echoed, eyebrows furrowing. Feeling the need to lighten the mood, he continued. "I was just gone for a few days, nothing much."

"It's not that," Martin insisted. "I'm afraid I shouldn't have sent you to that place. Sanguine is a horrible force, bending others to their will, and it was a rash decision to lead you into his deceit."

He was a little taken aback. "What? No, it was fine," he reassured. It wasn't like he had killed anyone or even hurt them, not really. "I got the artifact." He held the object up to the light, offering it to Martin. The priest grimaced, snatching it out of his hands like the Breton was corrupting it.

"Don't touch that!" He snapped, getting to his feet. The other copied the action, a frown covering his face.

"It's not like I had any other choice if I wanted to bring you the thing in the first place," he argued, but Martin's scowl only deepened.

"This was a mistake," he muttered, rubbing his temples, and that was the last straw for the hero. Because he had been out through three days of pain, obeyed the will of evil gods, and even went into a portal to another realm just for Martin Septim- yeah, he was a little grumpy right now, but what was the heir's excuse?

"I'm glad you feel that way!" He shouted. "Sorry for disappointing you all!" His voice rang out through the otherwise empty hall, too loud, and Martin flinched. He lowered the volume, arms crossed. "I was fine, it went fine. It's not- it's not like I'm going to break it. I'm not going to mess up anymore. I'm here to fix this, Martin."

He looked at the Breton in a reserved kind of way, almost pitying, almost guilty but not quite either. "I know that," he said quietly. "I'm not worried you'll break it; I'm worried that it'll break _you_."

He didn't really know how to respond to that, but it looked like he didn't need to. Martin left it at that, not bothering to look back as he walked off with the Sanguine Rose, figure disappearing behind the oak doors.

* * *

It was well into night when he found his way down to the gathering of guards, all settled right outside the Bruma entrance. The cold seeped into his bones, tiny flakes of snow falling, but he knew that was about to change soon.

The hero was just heading to the West Wing to rest when Jauffre had run in, telling him of the Oblivion gate that had opened near the Nordic town. Why? Because, obviously, one man who barely survived Oblivion _once_ was clearly more qualified than a whole army of highly-trained soldiers to help decide the fate of the world.

Well, of course, he was also probably the only one who knew how to close the gates. The only one still alive, anyway.

The Breton still wished that he had been given more back-up. He really wasn't that strong, barely managing to pull his way through fights every time. Sure, he was getting better with a blade, but not better enough. And it wasn't like he was eager to dive into that world again, that dimension. The last time that had happened, he had been a complete mess. It took hours of spell-casting to get him into shape again, and that was only the physical damage. There was still that _change_ in the back of his mind, that lingering difference he couldn't name, and the Breton didn't like it at all.

But hey, why don't you save the world (again), Breton? You're obviously very sane and skilled, and it's not like you didn't just come back from a horrible mission and are extremely exhausted. It's not like you're only conscious because of the potions you just digested earlier. Of course not!

He hated his life.

The first face he saw was a familiar one, Burd looking strong and confident in his city's armor. The Nord went over to him as soon as he was close enough, feeling even smaller and insignificant next to the warrior.

"Thanks for coming," he started, tones rich with gratitude. "Since we had the Hero of Kvatch available, I didn't think it made sense to try this on our own the first time."

He inwardly grimaced at the title, attempting to keep a straight face. It was an honor, a huge honor to be addressed like such, but it didn't feel like it anymore. Every time he had entered the city to get his armor and weapons repaired or to get some new clothes, it was all the same; "Say, aren't you the Hero of Kvatch?" Or, "It's you! The Hero of Kvatch!" He used to swell up with pride at that, but now he just kind of deflated. The Breton wished that someone, anyone, would address him by something else- or, more like, he wished he had an actual name to be addressed by.

Burd kept on going, oblivious to the discussion he was holding in his head. "We're ready when you are," he told the other. "Just say the word and we'll follow you into that hell-spawned gate."

He kind of gaped at that, ruining his indifferent façade. Follow him? The Breton didn't know what to feel at that. Overwhelmed? Uneasy? Flattered? He settled on a mix of all three, but agreed nonetheless.

"I'm ready," he told the captain, checking to see that his steel helm was snug on his head. It had been one of the little prizes he had picked up from a bandit camp on the way back from Sanguine's shrine. The Breton still felt kind of guilty for taking it from the dead, but it kind of served the bandit right for ambushing him in the first place. There had to be a kind of rule for this, right? And on any account, if he was going to save the world he needed a good helmet.

"Alright," Burd replied. "Give me a minute to talk to my men. Everyone's a bit jumpy right now." He guided them both to the garrison nearer to the gate, and the Breton got his first look at the thing. It was just the same as the one in Kvatch, causing red flashes of lightning to grace the night sky and being encircled by crude daedric architecture.

"Alright, boys," the captain called, gesturing at him to come. He moved forward to face the troops, standing next to Burd. "We gotta close that gate over there. Nobody likes the idea of going into that thing, but it's our job, and we're going to do it. If we don't, Bruma will end up like a smoking pile of rubble, like what happened at Kvatch. And that's not going to happened here, not while I'm captain of the guard."

He began to call out orders, pointing to his men. Two of them stepped forward, ready to help, which put his worries that he would be going alone to rest. Burd nodded at him, and he nodded back, all running to the portal.

Oblivion was just as horrible as it had been the last time. The temperature rose immediately, landscape hazard and torn apart. He could see the Sigil Keep from where they entered, looking magnificent in its own way.

The soldiers appeared downright terrified but they didn't have time to adjust, a scamp bounding out of the rocks. The three ran over to kill it, which he would've laughed at if it hadn't been such a dire situation. He stayed back, dagger out, ready to face worse.

Three more appeared where the one died, throwing fireballs crazily at the group. One of the Bruma soldiers went to far to the edge of the lava, falling into its depths. The hero yelled out, rushing to finish off the scamp, but the damage had already been done.

He felt sick at that- not even a minute spent in the realm and someone had already died. Pushing it away, he gestured at the remaining, telling them to follow.

He navigated them through the harsh terrain, having to dodge sets of spikes rising through the ground like teeth. It put a horrid image into his head; the rocks each a jagged tooth, lava burning spit, land the gums and tongue- all a part of a giant mouth, swallowing them up and eating them whole. He tried not to let that fester in the back of his mind too long, already feeling discouraged.

They quickly cut down any scamp along the way, heat burning their skin. Another guard met his death from a flurry of fireballs, leaving only him and Burd.

He got his first wound from a frenzy of crimson vines, lashing forward like whips and catching his arm. Burd managed to cut them off before they caused any serious damage, his cuirass luckily protecting him from the worst of it, but his upper-arm still ached horribly.

They continued forward, climbing up the small hills close to the tower. A Dremora surprised them along the way, screaming bloody-murder, but he and Burd managed to defeat it. Both of them were pretty winded after it was done but the Breton knew they couldn't rest, that they would only feel worse if they stopped.

They finally reached the tower, two more Dremora guarding the door. He replaced his dagger with the daedric greatsword, feeling it in his hands. It was heavy but not unbearably so, and he was relieved that the weapon was not burning his palms like last time he tried to wield it.

He dashed toward to the Dremora in robes, dodging the spells it sent his way. He lashed out, hitting the demon in the shoulder, and its whole body erupted into flames.

The Breton jumped back at that, knowing the blow would kill any human. The monster staggered a bit, but seemed to be immune to most of the heat. He aimed to hit it again but the offending spell came quickly, a bolt of lightning getting him in the chest.

He braved himself for the impact but it never came, the spell melting into his body. His whole form glowed a faint pink for the barest second, something feeling different in his gut.

The hero went ahead, striking the Dremora in the heart. Flames raced across its figure, sword only pulling out when it went limp. He hurried to the corpse, not liking it one bit, but taking all the potions hidden in its robe nonetheless.

Burd had just finished with his own armored enemy, looking completely exhausted. He handed a warrior one of the potions, unsure of what it would do, but it seemed to have a positive effect. He stored the rest in his pack, walking to the tower's entrance.

The Breton slung his greatsword over his back in exchange for the elven dagger at his hip, studying the stone barrier. He was careful not to look at the symbols inscribed in the material, afraid of what he would find, as he reached one unarmored hand forward. The door didn't split in the middle like last time, instead cracking from where it met his skin, eventually crumbling to the ground.

Burd didn't ask any questions, running inside. He wasn't sure what he thought about that move. Foolishly charging in? You have fun with that.

He stuck to the walls as best he could, watching a couple of scamps bound towards the guard captain. The Nord took care of them easily, looking at him for further directions.

He lead them to one of the side doors, trying to make sense of the description. The Blood Feast's centerpiece churned loudly in the tower, lighting up the whole room in orange, but still it was too dark.

Giving up, he cut his knife through the cracks in the doors, pulling the sides. He squeezed through the tiny space, helping Burd open it further so that the captain could get through.

He lead them up to the halls, trying to be as quiet as possible. The Breton attempted to ignite a fireball in his palm so that they could see, shocked when it came so easily. The flames licked at his skin, bathing the room brightly, and it was probably some of the best Magick he had created.

A screech came from behind them, shrilly and disturbing. He quickly turned just in time to see the beast dashing to them, small and ferocious. It dug its claws into his leg, making him scream as they broke through his leather greaves, and Burd managed to kill it before it got any worse.

He looked down at the thing's corpse, stomach churning, and they both made their way through the next door in silent agreement. It opened to reveal another dark hallway, but he decided not to use up too much Magicka this time. They instead picked their way over the room without sight, feeling for the walls.

The trap came swinging over his head, large and spiky and almost bringing him to his death. Burd dived forward just in time, toppling the two of them over onto the floor. He barely managed to breathe out a word of gratitude, a new enemy making their appearance known. It was a woman made of fire, floating towards them with too many bad intentions. Burd got off of the Breton, hurrying forward and swinging his sword at her, but it didn't do much damage to the body of pure flames.

Still in shock, he stumbled up to a standing position, concentrating harder. Again, the spell seemed to work too easily, a flurry of ice erupting from his fingers and killing the atronach instantly, but he wasn't complaining.

Burd sent him an impressed look but he waved the warrior off, not bothering to think too much on it. They entered through the Blood Feast once more, battling through some scamps to the next room.

This one was guarded with even more atronachs, and he found himself conjuring more and more ice storms and balls of snow. He tried his luck at summoning lighting, creating a small hurricane as Dremora and clannfear piled in, and the small army was dead within seconds.

The Breton drank some potions to regain his energy when it was done, feeling amazed. He found that he could barely create a spark of fire after it was done, but it was definitely worth it; winds roaring and forming into a tornado of ice around them, flashes of lighting dancing within the storm and paralyzingly the best of Oblivion's beasts.

They made it to the top level, a single Dremora guarding the way. It seemed a lot easier than before to take down the monster, him causing a small spark of electricity to minimally paralyze the enemy while Burd ran it through with his sword from behind. He dug through his bag for the sigil key, finding that it fit the tiny slot to the Sigilium Sanguis perfectly.

The grounds of the Sanguis squished under their feet, and they barely made it through the entrance before a clannfear assaulted them. Thinking quickly, he threw his dagger at the monster, hoping to nail it in the chest- and missed.

Cursing to himself, he jumped up to avoid its claws, swiftly unsheathing his greatsword and lopping off the thing's head. Burd grabbed his elven dagger but he let the Nord hold onto it for the time being, instead taking Burd's arm and pulling them up to the object of their troubles.

He kept a firm grip on Burd's arm, trying to guide them upwards. A robed Dremora snuck up behind them, knocking Burd to the ground hard and swinging its daedric mace at his head. The Breton tackled the monster to the ground before the hit could connect, shoving it off the edge of the walkway with extreme difficulty.

He knew that the fall wasn't far enough to kill it, standing hastily. A quick check for his pulse proved that the guard had only been knocked unconscious, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Preparing himself, he draped the man's arm across his shoulders, tiny frame struggling to support the muscled warrior.

The slowly made their way up the very top, but it wasn't long before more monsters came. He was not nearly fast enough to outrun the atronach heading towards them, shielding Burd from the onslaught of fireballs thrown at them. He felt his cuirass start to smoke, just a step away from being lit on fire, and this was probably some of the worst pain he had experienced in his entire life.

The Dremora started to head up to where they were, outnumbering him easily. The Breton felt like screaming, dreading this more with every growing second, fatigue coursing through him.

In a last resort he dropped Burd's body, running as fast as he could to the stone. It glowed brilliantly, held in a shining pedestal, folding into his palm nearly as he stole it. He quickly dashed back down to Burd, pushing them both over the edge as the Dremora tried to swing at them, and they disappeared into a flash of bright light as they fell.


	11. Chapter Ten

He looked into the mirror, frown making itself known. Big brown eyes blinked back at him, the color of roasted coffee beans.

His hair was the same color as his warm irises, ruffled only slightly atop his head. It was a bit long but much shorter than Martin's, framing a young-looking face. The occasional freckle dotted his cheeks, one hidden behind a scar that hadn't quite faded away. He frowned further, light pink lips morphing features he found hard to recognize.

The Breton was so entranced staring at his reflection that he didn't notice the heir, nose almost touching the glass. Martin coughed deeply in the back of his throat, causing him to spin around and knock over half of the things on the shelf.

Neither of them moved to pick anything up, the former priest looking at him with an unamused expression. He grinned sheepishly, Kvatch cuirass rugged on his chest.

"Hi," he started, straightening subconsciously. Martin nodded back, taking a seat on his too-large bed. He looked so modest compared to the grand room, shabby robes clashing with polished furniture and shiny trinkets.

"You seem to be having fun," Martin noted, but he saw past the general grumpiness caused by trying to save the end of the world. Sure enough, concern broke through the snappiness. "I'm glad you made it back safely."

He shrugged once more. "Yeah," the hero replied. "Burd did most of the work. And the... others." He remembered how the happiness of victory had strained when the guards learned of the deaths, how the captain's grief ran so far as Burd held himself accountable.

Oblivion was a wicked place, that was for sure. He thinks that he's just starting to see the importance of closing those gates.

He eventually meets Martin's worried blue eyes, taking in the lines drawn across soft features and the evident lack of sleep. The Breton wants to glance back at the mirror, wants to see how the potions he takes each day has made him look less ill, wants to see the underlying spark of crazy energy in his pupils from the even more insane life he lives. He wonders if Martin is trying to memorize each detail of his face like he's doing to the priest, wonders if the other can see that spark, too.

"I didn't know it was like this," he murmurs, fingers fiddling with the fabric of his light armor. His statement merely draws confusion from Martin.

"What do you mean?" He gestures to his face like it can reveal the answer.

"Me," the hero elaborates. "I mean, this was the first time I saw myself. Just, um, interesting. I guess." He looks younger than he feels, but for Martin, it's probably the other way around.

Martin's mouth softens along the edges, shifting into a ghost of a smile. "Yeah," he mutters. "Interesting." They both seem content to leave it at that, shadows wrapping around the corners of the room and snow falling gently outside the walls.

* * *

The doors to Sancre Tor creak as he opens them, sound echoing throughout the structure. He cringes as he steps inside, not bothering to force the entrance shut behind him.

The walls inside are dusty, slabs of stone layered with cracks. The air carries that same dust, tasting old on his tongue. He attempts to light a flame in his hand but not even a twinge of fire comes from the effort, leaving him slightly concerned and wishing it weren't night outside.

The Breton steps through the dark for some time, hugging the walls and shivering in the cold. He sees the ghost before it sees him, wisps of lost life rolling off the apparition and brightening the hallways.

He walks forward to the cloud of light, curious. A face forms out of the fog, ugly and vicious, and a ball of blue energy disentangles from the enemy and launches towards him.

The hero is hit in the chest, staggering back slightly. The offense didn't seem to do any damage, body flushing pink as it was absorbed. He feels something start up in the pit of his stomach, adrenaline bringing him to throw his steel dagger at the enemy.

He felt like cheering when it hit, but the excitement was short-lived. The weapon merely sailed through the cloud, landing with a clank some distance away. He couldn't help the curse that broke out of chapped lips, completely exasperated. He had just gotten that dagger!

The spirit appeared even angrier than him, throwing another ball of energy to his form. He fell to the ground, narrowly avoiding it. Breathing hard, the hero stumbled to a standing position, unsheathing the greatsword at his back and charging.

The daedric metal seemed to have an affect on the apparition. It disappeared in flames, terrible screeching filling the halls. He was alone before he fully knew what was happening, adrenaline pumping hard through his veins.

The Breton continued forward, using the glow that emanated off his weapon for sight. Finding his knife was a lost cause, and he had a brief spurt of amusement trying to imagine Jauffre's reaction when he asked for another. Tucking that away, he began to delve further into the dark reaches of the fort.

The Breton didn't really fully understand the reasons for sending him on this mission. Martin had uncovered yet another trial for them to pass in order to traverse into Mankar Camoran's Paradise; the blood of a Divine. That was nice and all, but of didn't explain why he was the one to get it.

He was fine with helping the Blades, really. In fact, it was kind of an obligation that kept him moving forward, as it was the Breton's fault that they were in this mess. How did he ever manage to forget to give Jauffre the Amulet? It was the whole reason that he had gone to Weynon Priory in the first place: _Take this Amulet, give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son_. Only he could mess up that badly.

Yes, he was fine with going on these expeditions for the Blades and Martin Septim. But why were _they_ fine with it? Martin seemed to trust him, in the very least, despite the toll the Xarxes have taken on him. But Jauffre should've have told the Breton to leave ages ago. He said that he believed in Uriel's judgement, that he was the one to 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion,' but it was obvious that the deceased king had been wrong. And yet they send him to a place of legends, to retrieve one of the most important items in creation?

Okay.

He found himself in a bigger room, lit by torches of white flames. The ghosts spotted him immediately, three of them swarming him at once, but the hero of Kvatch managed to defeat them with one hit each. He descended the stairs, greatsword in his hands humming with a power that he hadn't felt outside the Deadlands. It was almost frightening, but the strength was intoxicating enough that he didn't want to pull away.

The same braziers dotted the continuing halls, path becoming more destroyed as he traveled along. His weapon's hilt seemed to grow more heated with each kill, making him feel lucky that he had managed to find a pair of thick leather gauntlets before leaving for the expedition.

The Breton finally reached a more distinct room than the others, the creaking of bones reverberating quietly through the walkway. He creeped around the corners of Sancre Tor, peeking around the wall to find the source of the noise.

A lone skeleton trudged through the room, bones clacking against the stone floor and crunching against each other. It brandished a shiny katana in its skinless fingers, worn Blade armor displayed proudly on its figure.

He winced in sudden pain, the heat of his weapon flaring up. It fell with a loud clang, alerting the enemy to his position. He shrieked, trying to pick the weapon back up, but it was too painful to hold.

He rushed away as the skeleton came after him, blade grazing his cuirass slightly. The Breton dodged another swing just in time, tripping and falling on a large mound of dirt. He spluttered, spitting dried soil out of his mouth as the monster bounded towards him again.

He held his hands in front of him, trying to find the surge of Magicka he had summoned all the way back in Oblivion. What came was less than a shadow of that power, a shard of ice lodging itself into the skeleton's ribcage.

It knocked away some of the bones, melting swiftly as the spell wore off. He tried again as the monster walked onward unharmed, thinking of the burning oceans of the Deadlands, and the ball of fire that erupted from his fingertips burned the skeleton's bones to ashes.

The Breton stood shakily, keeping a wide berth between him and the ash pile. He sheathed his greatsword with some difficulty, leather gauntlets completely destroyed. He made a mental note not to use Magicka while wearing armor that covers his palms, briefly considering going back in hopes of recovering his fallen dagger.

Brown irises landed on the shimmering katana, looking new compared to the rusted armor. He wandered over, cautiously picking up the weapon and holding it in his palms. He was stronger than when he first held a blade like this one and the difference showed, hilt perfectly balanced in his grip.

Feeling reassured he made to go on, coming to an abrupt halt as the ash pile started to shimmer. He could only watch as a shape formed from the mound, the spirit growing until it was a ghostly version of a man in armor. Its eyes found him quickly enough, feet taking form and bringing the apparition forward.

A voice rumbled from its throat before he could try to attack, low and male. "At long last, you have freed me. Now I can finally complete my lord's last request."

He blinked in confusion. "Who are you?"

Fog mingled with the bright silhouette of the ghost, appearing blue in the light of the brazier. "I am Rielus," he answered. "Loyal Blade of Tiber Septim. I do not know how long I have been dead. It feels like an eternity."

He furrows his eyebrows, strands of brunet hair peeking out from his borrowed helmet. "What happened to you?"

"My three companions and I were sent here to discover what evil had defiled the holy catacombs of Sancre Tor," he moaned. "We did not know that the Underking, who was Zurin Aretus, had arisen to take his first revenge upon his former lord. The Underking defeated and ensnared us in his evil enchantment, and bound us here to guard forever the defiled shrine of Tiber Septim."

The hero had no idea who Zurin Aretus was, but he didn't sound too nice. "Is the Underking still here?"

"No," Rielus answered. "He departed long ago. But his evil will remains, preventing any from paying homage at the shrine of Tiber Septim."

He fingered the katana nervously. "Well, uh, is there any way to get rid of-" he faltered, trying to find the right words. "His 'evil will'?"

"Over the uncounted years of our slavery here, we have brooded over our defeat," he told the shorter. "I believe that we can undo the Underking's magic." He nodded, but the ghost wasn't finished. "I go now to complete my duty to my lord. Free my brothers, and together we may be able to lift the Underking's curse."

Rielus faded just slightly, turning away and walking through the doors. The Breton followed, thoughts racing faster than his heart.

* * *

He was lead to a room much more spacious than the others, path branching off to other doors and ceiling stretching high over his head. The architecture was old but beautiful all the same, caked in dirt but built so precisely it didn't jar the sight too much. The white flames reflected off the walls, looking blue against the stone, and he could hear the distant trickle of water.

Ghosts were spread across the room, all of them completely ignoring Rielus. The Breton was running low on Magicks by the time he had cleared them out. He continued to follow the deceased Blade further, going across a bridge extended over a long fall. He tried not to look over the edge, watching for more enemies.

The hero was about to go further when the spirit held up a hand, making him stop. Rielus left him standing on the bridge, disappearing into shadows.

He frowned, turning back. His eyes landed on a small-looking chest, curiosity getting the best of him. He opened it, mildly surprised that it was unlocked, finding a pile of potions tucked inside. The hero beamed at the object, taking all the potions out and stuffing all but one of them into his pack. He downed the smallest looking one, colored pink like the others, slightly disappointed when it turned out to be a bad one.

If he had a septim for every potion that didn't work...

Pushing the thought away he stood, observing his choices. There were about three or four doors, all made of cracked stone, all looking the same. The Breton picked a room at random, figuring that whatever he was looking for would be behind one of the entrances.

It was more confusing than the last hallway he had traveled through, dead ends branching off at every corner and ceiling looking as if it were about to collapse over his head. He was at least grateful for the light, whether it came from white flames or ghosts.

The other three Blades were somewhat easier to defeat, his Magicka seemingly having recovered. He didn't really understand that and he figured he wouldn't for a long time, but he was thankful that it provided a way to defeat the ghosts as his greatsword cooled off. The katana was especially useful, and he managed to replace it with an enchanted duplicate when the ancient metal snapped.

The deceased Blades didn't try to stop him as he made his way over the bridge once more, katana in his hands and demeanor alert. He went through another door at the very end of the hall, opening the rotted oak entrance.

It creaked horribly before falling of its hinges, looking so out of place next to stone. He stepped over the wood, boots splashing in the water and getting stuck in mud. The Breton pushed on, going through one last entrance, eyes being met by a strange sight.

It was a different sort of hall, larger and even more destroyed, raised platforms on the sides. The Blades froze, all facing the end of the tunnel. A light shined brighter than the sun, taking up the whole end, emanating a force that he couldn't get pass.

He stepped forward slowly, muddy boots making tracks on the ground. The light and power it gave off started to dissipate, allowing him to continue. The Blades kneeled down at his feet as he passed, giving him a kind of tingly feeling in the pit of his stomach. The walls turned rocky as he pressed forward, eventually meeting the end of the path.

The armor of Tiber Septim gleamed beautifully on its podium, golden and pure. The katana clattered to the ground, left to be forgotten in the fort. He picked up the heavy chest plate, barely managing to hold it. Knowing it wouldn't fit in his bag he simply chose to carry it, turning away from the room.

He stumbled across the harsh grounds of the tunnel, crawling over mounds of dirt towards the exit. The Blades saluted him in a show of respect as he passed, bringing a goofy grin to his face. The defender of Bruma pushed through the exit, heading to Cloud Ruler Temple with the fate of Tamriel in his arms.

* * *

The armor of the Blades felt strange on his form, too polished and too heavy. He still managed to wear it with pride, made to match his small figure.

The hero sat cross-legged on one of the sleeping bags in the West Wing, flipping through the pages of a book. The words were still meaningless to him but one sentence stood out, letters morphing into something he could read.

He glanced up at the sound of the door opening, brown eyes anxious. Shoving the book under a mass of sheets he turned to the entrance, Martin's face meeting his line of sight.

He quickly stood, walking over to the heir. The simply looked at each other for a while, silence filling in the otherwise empty room.

Martin was the first one to talk. "I was... wrong," he admitted, but that only increased the Breton's confusion.

"Wrong?" He repeated. The former priest nodded, elaborating quickly.

"About being worried, and all those things I said a while back. I mean," he paused, considering. "You brought back the armor of a Divine from a damned place that many have met their fate in. You have gone into Oblivion and come back to tell the tale. You can handle yourself much more than I gave you credit for."

The blush spread across his cheeks, his hand combing through chestnut hair nervously. "Martin-"

"No," he interrupted. "Please. You're a hero, whether you believe it or not." He looked so sincere, expression solemn and clear of all doubt. The Breton couldn't speak for a moment, mind reeling.

"Thanks," he decided on, still blinking stupidly. He took a short moment until he spoke again, this time with a soft grin. "Goodnight, Septim."

"And you," he replied, nodding, and he ascended the stairs to his room. The Breton watched him go, heart feeling light and face positively beaming. He eventually took his seat back on the bed, finding the book hidden under blankets.

The hero stared at the words written on the crisp page, thinking long and hard, and it was a while until he let the book go.

"When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee."

* * *

_I have been thinking of the HoK's appearance for some time, and I hope it came out okay. Your guys' thoughts?_


	12. Chapter Eleven

_A bit short, but next chapter will definitely be longer, and will come in quicker. By next Sunday? Enjoy the chapter._

* * *

Cheydinhal was absolutely stunning.

He hadn't quite seen anything like it. There was the Imperial City, bustling with people, and Bruma, small with a cozy feel. He had traveled to Bravil, barely holding itself up as it was, and Chorrol, which held its own quiet kind of beauty. But Cheydinhal was different.

The buildings all had their own personal touch, guild houses doused in banners and each brick gleaming in the sun. Green was everywhere, sprouting in tufts from the ground or swinging swiftly in the wind from large oak trees. Glimmering rivers wormed their way through the cracks of the hold, quaint bridges extending over the water and holding strong underneath his weight.

It would have been infinitely more beautiful if not for the storming skies overhead, red spikes of lightning raking across the heavy clouds. The few dwindling townspeople daring to step outside held themselves in a defeated manner, as if they were simply waiting for their home to become the next Kvatch. He headed across the length of the city, away from the palace and towards the exit, shoulders set.

He jogged through the fields of flowers, having to stop a few times due to the heavy armor he wore. It was a large difference from his usual light Kvatch cuirass, but ever since he had been accepted into the Blades he hadn't stopped to switch over. There hadn't been a need to, either way- as they waited for Martin to decipher the next part of the spell, the Breton had been off, closing gates near the towns and earning aid for Bruma.

He slowed to a walk as the portal came into view, a bright orange surface encircled with daedric metal. The greatsword at his back hummed with power, as if sensing the world it came from, making him slightly uneasy. The Hero's sides ached, being reminded that with or without armor he was a terribly slow runner, Akaviri katana clanking against his thigh uncomfortably.

The winds seemed to grow stronger as he approached, strings of brown hair whisking into his eyes and bouncing against his forehead. His fingers reached to comb his hair back, shiny silver knife strapped to his arm. It was engraved with the slightest symbols, fading in and out of the metal, giving it a soft blue glow.

The Breton finally reached the gate, standing in front of several corpses. There were a few guards standing around, only one paying him any sort of attention, and that told him wonders. The man went over towards him, helmet snug on his head.

"I advise you to keep your distance from that accursed portal," he warned, shouting over the rumbles of thunder, and the Breton suppressed the urge to laugh.

_Very cute_, he wanted to say. "Uh, what?" He said instead, mentally face-palming. He was pretty sure that some part of becoming an elite force created to guard the one and only emperor was to be freaking awesome, and he was just as sure that he was failing at that.

The man frowned. "Haven't you heard about these gates to Oblivion opening up all over Tamriel?" He asked, and once again, he nearly erupted into a fit of giggles. Which, admittedly, would have made him look quite mad, but really?

_No. I have never heard about them. Not at all. Nope_.

"Yes, I have," he shouted over the noise, arms curling around his small frame. He wouldn't mind if Baurus was here to simply push the guard out of their way, or if Martin was here to put a smile on his face. But no, he was left with this guy.

"Well, then, you know what they're capable of producing," he reasoned. "Although, nothing has come out since Farwil entered."

He squinted, racking his brains. Ever since he woke up in that prison (and perhaps even before) he had trouble hanging on to memories. Sometimes they simply slipped past his fingers like fine grains of sand, or faded to the point that they were simply shadows of what they used to be unless he was constantly thinking of them. He didn't remember who Farwil was, couldn't recall the name of the Kvatch captain, completely forgot about the Amulet of Kings-

"Farwil?" He forced out of his mouth, not wanting to follow where his train of thought was leading.

"About two days ago," he answered, voice dropping as the storm quieted. "Count Indary's son, Farwil, entered the Oblivion gate with six other men." His eyes widened, not at the tale but in remembrance. The Count had literally just told this to him!

"By the Nine!" He snapped, huffing. Yes, there were bigger problems at hand, but this was just getting ridiculous. The guard, however, mistook the meaning behind his words, nodding agreeably.

"Such a terrible fate," he murmured. "We haven't heard from them since. The Count fears the worse, and has posted guards here so we can watch and see if anything comes back out. So far, nothing." He was about to continue when the Breton raised a hand, silencing him.

"That's great and all," he offered. "But I have to go now. Sorry." The apology seemed necessary to add, shrugging as he didn't spare a second glance to the taller. The hero walked briskly to the portal, being stopped by a hand that grabbed for his shoulder.

"Hey!" He was turned back around, facing the knight. Sighing, he pulled free of the grip, unamused. "I thought we were done?"

He honestly just wanted to get this over with quickly, especially if others were at stake, but he seemed to be the only one. "I can't let you go in there, citizen," he said, and the Breton narrowed his eyes.

"Well, you also can't convince me otherwise," he replied, adamant, hoping the guard realized he wasn't going to back down. The guard seemed to understand, reluctant but willing.

"If you find any of the Knights of the Thorn, get them out of there," he said, and the Breton recalled Farwil making a little group of followers who were worse with a sword than he himself was. "I'm sure that the Count would also be pleased if the gate was closed."

He could confirm that fact, seeing as he had just struck a trade with said ruler, but saying that wouldn't be any help. Nodding, he turned around once more, taking in a quick intake of breath as he crossed dimensions.

* * *

It took two trips into the "Bowels," three mines, one sprained ankle and about fifty flame atronachs to reach Farwil, and when he did, he could honestly say that it probably wasn't worth it.

Oblivion looked just as it always did, with thunderous red skies and dry soil flecked with Harada root and veins of blood. Stones that gleamed in the glowing canvas above peppered the valley, creating a misshapen trail. He found corpses of Farwil's followers along the way, faces so young and armor coated in crimson, and he had to push himself forward and past the regret.

The trail lead him into a series of caves several times, a separate maze on its own. Letters carved into stone morphed into something interpretable, telling him that he was descending into the Bowels. It wasn't a pleasant thought, seeing as the passageways were stuffed full of foul-smelling smoke, but he even got past that.

It was in the expanse of land between cave entrances that he found the mines, stumbling across the trap as he tried to dodge gradually falling boulders from the mountains. They were buried and hidden in sprouts of bloodgrass, going off as his foot stepped on the mechanism and exploding into a assault of fire and light.

His backside hit the ground hard, pain shooting up his right leg. The blast had turned his grieves into a blackened mess, rips running along the black fabric through the gaps of metal. The real damage came from the impact of flying back, ankle throbbing with pain, and he wasn't nearly confident enough with his Magicka to try and heal the sprain.

He grunted, limping heavily through the rest of the way. It proved to be quite a challenge to fight with the cripple, one particular clannfear trying to claw off his face. His heavy cuirass luckily blocked most of the hits, but he came out of the second cave looking much worse for wear.

And, of course, a grumpy Dunmer face was right out there to greet him.

He blinked his big brown eyes in a daze, staring at the other. Red irises examined him thoroughly, as if trying to figure out his worth, and he saw the boy's nose wrinkle in disgust. He probably would've been angry if he had enough energy for it, but in truth, the last of his potions had gone to preserving his strength and sustaining his health.

He furrowed his eyebrows, face sickly green, thinking much too hard. He stumbled, struggling for balance, trying to focus on the Dunmer boy as he spoke.

"It's about time that someone got here," he snarled, just as the Breton began to recover. "What took you so long?"

He heard the hostility in the voice but didn't respond to it, not able to focus on much besides the other boy. It must have been Farwil, then; his face faintly resembled his father's, eyes cold instead of kind.

He breathed in heavily, stumbling again, face pitching forward this time. A blur made itself known from the mess of colors, strong arms grabbing his form and catching him before he could fall. He let the heat and pain overcome him, succumbing into darkness.


End file.
